The Price of Justice
by perfectvelvet
Summary: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects. Casefic, trialfic.
1. Chapter 1 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Date Written: August 2004 - November 2005 (yes, you read that correctly!)  
Rating: PG-13/T (nothing you wouldn't hear on the show)  
Classification: Casefile with trial, Munch/Casey  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.  
Notes: This fic got a little out of hand during the year plus that it took me to write, and my original idea versus the end version are only remotely similar. I've tried to keep it as legally accurate as possible (even consulted a few attorneys), but it is still a work of fiction. I hope it makes sense and contains enough twists to keep you reading. Please no remarks about my choice of pairing, but I welcome any other constructive criticism or guesses (and I do hope you'll be guessing).  
Only the first seven chapters or so were actually beta read, but I've read the thing a million times from start to finish, and I'm really tired of looking at it! Thanks to all the people who offered to beta, who did beta, who answered my endless questions, who let me bounce ideas off of them, and who encouraged me to keep writing this. It almost didn't make it.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 1/14  
by perfectvelvet

"It's a box. It's a bed. It's a stick man by a bed. It's a stick man by a coffin. It's a ... what the hell is it?"

John Munch snickered. "I knew she'd never get this one."

"Shut up, Munch." Olivia Benson squinted at the chalkboard and her partner's furious scribbles. The oval shaped design with sticks coming down from it had her puzzled. "A UFO? Bed. UFO. Alien abductions."

"Time's running out," he taunted with a tap at his watch.

Elliot Stabler drew a face with bloodshot eyes. Or at least that's what he thought it looked like. Then he tapped on the face, then on the bed, then on the other drawing. "Come on, Liv."

She clenched and unclenched her fists, silently mouthing words. "He's high, he drank too much coffee before bed." Elliot nodded and pointed again. "He's not tired. He's awake. He's not sleeping." Elliot rolled his wrist. Closer, closer. "Sleepless! _Sleepless in Seattle_!"

Odafin Tutuola stomped his foot. "Damn! John, I thought you said she didn't watch chick flicks."

"She doesn't," Elliot confirmed, wiping down the board.

Olivia tapped her finger on the last drawing. "Wait, what was that?"

"The Space Needle."

"_That's_ the Space Needle? Oh, El, you've got to go to Seattle. That looks nothing like the Space Needle."

"Yeah, yeah." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, we still have a few more minutes until the shift starts. We can do one more." He flipped through the index cards that he and Olivia had prepared beforehand. He showed her the one where she had written _Lethal Weapon_, and she grinned. "Who's drawing?"

Donald Cragen stepped out of his office, his own eyes bloodshot. "People, what are we doing?"

"Playing Pictionary," Olivia answered. "Want to play? You can join Munch and Fin's team since they're losing."

"I just got a call from the Honorable Marianne Woodward. Benson, Stabler, I want you down at the courthouse ten minutes ago."

Elliot reached for his jacket. "What's up, Cap?"

"She wants to report a rape."

"Whose?" Fin asked.

"Her own."

* * *

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Monday, October 18_

"Please, Detectives, have a seat. Would you like some coffee?" Marianne Woodward was a striking woman, one whose attractiveness seemed to grow with age. Her golden hair was wrapped in a neat bun atop her head. She was petite in every sense of the word, but when dressed in the black judge's robe, she looked intimidating.

As a judge with the Criminal Court of New York City, she was a friend to the Special Victims Unit. When remand was requested, it was usually granted. When it was time for sentencing, Judge Woodward gave the strictest punishment allowed by the law. There was always a sense of relief when she was assigned to an SVU case, even before the trial began.

"I'm sorry to have you come all the way out here," she said as she sat behind her large oak desk, "but I'd like to avoid the media circus for as long as I can."

"We understand," Elliot said then cast a glance at his partner. She gave him a small nod, and he flipped open his notebook and readied his pen. "Could you tell us what happened?"

"My sister Carly and I had dinner reservations at eight at Primorski. We were there until ten-thirty. I got home around eleven, I think. The door was unlocked, but the alarm was set, so I didn't think much of it."

"Didn't think much of it?" Olivia repeated.

"My live-in housekeeper, Elena, forgets to lock it sometimes, but we live in a very safe apartment building. Or so I thought."

"Who else has keys to your apartment?" Elliot asked.

"Just Elena and my sister." She waited to see if they had any other questions before continuing. "I had an early docket this morning, so I decided to go to bed. I went into my bedroom. I didn't turn on the lights. I had just started undressing when he..."

Olivia gave her a comforting smile. "Take your time."

"I think he had been hiding in the closet. There was a loud bang when he threw open the door." She pressed her fingers to her lips. "He, uh, he blindfolded me, shoved a washcloth in my mouth, and tied me to the bedposts. Then he raped me. He used a condom, too, the bastard."

"Do you have any idea how long he was there?"

"Not that long. Elena got home at midnight and found me." She took a breath. "It was her night off, and she wasn't due in until this morning. If she hadn't come home when she did, I don't know what would've happened."

"So he was still there when Elena arrived?" Olivia asked.

"He disappeared when he heard the front door open. I don't know where he went. I banged my fists on the headboard until Elena came in. I guess he slipped past her."

"Did you go to the hospital?"

"I called my physician. She took me to Mount Sinai and did the rape kit." She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a business card. "This is the name of the officer who took the kit to the lab."

Elliot made the notations in his notebook. "What's your doctor's name?"

"Libby Shaw."

"Do you remember anything about the man who attacked you? Any physical characteristics, something he said?"

The judge chuckled to herself. "It was dark in my room. Even darker after he blindfolded me. But he did say something."

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "What was it?"

"When he grabbed me, he whispered, 'I love it when a plan comes together.'"

* * *

"Wow." Elliot took a hesitant step out of the elevator. Judge Woodward resided on the top floor of an apartment building on the Upper West Side. The pearl marble tiled foyer swirled with intricate patterns. "This is not what I expected." 

Olivia chuckled. "Why not?"

"I don't know," he said, pressing the buzzer beside a cherry wood door with a pastoral scene carved into it. "Guess I pictured something a little more humble."

"She's a rich widow, no kids. Her husband was an extremely successful celebrity lawyer. Died in July. She donates a significant amount of money to RAINN, Safe Horizon -- all the victim organizations."

"Sounds like you did your homework."

She grinned. "Anyone who hands the maximum sentence over to sex offenders is someone I pay attention to."

"You think it could have been a parolee who raped her?"

"I don't know what to think yet."

A young woman opened the door and regarded them with innocent brown eyes. Her black hair was shoulder-length and straight, and she wore black slacks and a white blouse. Elliot found his gaze drawn to a long scar on her neck that ran from her ear to her shirt collar. He held up his badge. "I'm Detective Stabler, this is my partner, Detective Benson."

"Yes. Ms. Woodward told me you'd be coming by. I'm Elena." She allowed them into the apartment. "I decided not to stay at my friend's house last night," she said without preamble. "I just wish I had come home instead of going to that movie. Then I would've been here when Ms. Woodward got back from dinner. Maybe then this wouldn't have happened."

They passed through a living room with classically styled furniture that looked like something out of the nineteenth century. A long, elegant dining table for six sat on the right side of the room; behind it was a wall separating the kitchen from the dining area. Shutters had been built into it and were open, providing a view of the oak wood cabinets and marble countertops. Elena grabbed onto the handles of a silver tea cart and pushed it through another door and into a modest sunroom. The windows extended from floor to ceiling, and there were several marble benches and dozens of potted plants. The most striking element was the working stone fountain topped with Themis, the Greek goddess of justice, water trickling down from her scales.

"Ms. Woodward is such a kind-hearted person. This whole thing is terrible." Elena gestured to the cart and gave them her most polite smile. "Would you like some tea?"

"We'd just like to ask you some questions," Elliot said.

"And we'd like to see Judge Woodward's bedroom," Olivia added.

"Oh." Elena sat down quickly. "Well, it's already been cleaned."

Elliot looked up from his notebook. "Cleaned?"

"Yes. I wanted Ms. Woodward to be comfortable when she got home." Her lower lip trembled. "Was that bad?"

"What cleaning did you do?" Olivia asked.

"Well, I vacuumed and dusted, and I had the sheets and comforter taken to the cleaners."

"Which cleaners?"

She reached into the pocket of her black slacks and pulled out a ticket stub. "This one."

While Olivia contacted the company, Elliot sat down on the bench beside Elena. She twisted her fingers together, and her left heel was tapping on the floor. "What's your last name, Elena?"

"Petrova," she answered, "but I've been here for seven years. I have citizenship."

"We're not with the immigration bureau. We're just trying to find out what happened to Judge Woodward, okay?" He gave her a comforting smile. "What movie did you go see last night?"

She rattled off the name in Russian. "It was at a foreign film theater on Forty-Second Street."

"What happened when you got home?"

"I came in the front door and went to the kitchen. I heard some banging from Ms. Woodward's bedroom, so I checked on her. She was tied to the bed. She was ... naked."

"You didn't see anyone else anywhere in the apartment?"

"No."

"Okay. What did you do when you found Judge Woodward?"

"I took the blindfold off, then I took the cloth out of her mouth. She told me to call Doctor Shaw. She came, and we all went to the hospital. Then, while Ms. Woodward was with the doctor, I came home and got her some clothes. When I got back, she was done. Her sister was there."

"Her sister Carly?"

Elena nodded. "They talked for a little while, then Ms. Woodward left with her sister. I came back here, took a nap, and then started cleaning."

"What time did you get back?"

"Five or five-thirty. It was a long night." Her fingers absently rubbed the scar on her neck. "Long night."

"What happened?" He pointed to his own neck and mirrored her actions.

She realized what she had been doing and jerked her hand down, as if she had been burned. She gazed at him and sighed. "When I came to the United States, I got a job in a Russian restaurant. Ms. Woodward was a regular; her office was only a few blocks away. One night, I was working late, alone, and a man came into the restaurant. He had a knife, and he wanted all the money, but Dimitri had already put it in the safe, and I didn't know the combination." She squirmed in her seat. "He did bad things to me. He almost killed me. If Dimitri hadn't come back..."

Elliot stopped writing and looked at her. He tried to imagine what it must've been like for her: moving to a country where she didn't speak the language, hoping for a chance at a good life, and then having everything -- her innocence, her future -- taken away in one night. "So Judge Woodward took you in."

"She always sat at my tables. When I didn't come back to work, she asked what happened to me." Elena wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "She came to see me in the hospital. She told me not to be afraid, that she would take care of everything, and she did. The man who did this to me went to jail, and I moved in with her and her husband. I learned English, and I went to night school."

"Elena, Judge Woodward said the door wasn't locked when she came home last night. Is it possible that you forgot?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. It's very safe here, sometimes I forget." A pleasant chime resounded through the apartment, and she stood up. "Excuse me."

Olivia waited until she was gone before speaking to her partner. "CSU's on their way over. They also sent a team to the cleaners to pick up the bedding."

"Good."

"She contaminated the scene, Elliot."

"I know."

"She never should've come back here. She may have compromised this investigation."

"We'll find out soon enough." Before she could speak again, he asked, "Heard anything from Munch and Fin?"

"They just finished talking to Brent Davies, the officer who was present during the exam. He claims he followed the chain of command with the kit and will forward a copy of the results to us when they're ready. They're on their way to see Doctor Shaw now."

"Okay. We should talk to the sister, but I want to check out the premises first. Something about this doesn't sit right with me. We're on the top floor of a ritzy apartment building with a doorman, cameras in every hallway... Elena probably didn't lock the door, but that's not the problem. I want to know how he got into the building in the first place."

"Disguise?" she suggested.

"I don't think so. If he came as pizza delivery, maybe, but cable, phone, general maintenance? There aren't many companies who send their guys out that late."

"So we're thinking resident or building employees. Someone who belongs here. Judge Woodward may even know him." She heard voices in the parlor and glanced out the doorway. "CSU's here. I'll go talk to security, see if we can get a look at the tapes from last night."

* * *

Doctor Libby Shaw tucked a lock of ash blond hair behind her ear and looked at the two detectives in her office. "You're here about Marianne, aren't you?" 

"We just want to ask you a few things about last night," Fin explained. "You were summoned to Judge Woodward's house by the housekeeper, Elena, is that right?"

"That's correct. And when I arrived, Marianne was ... shaken but cooperative. She told me that she had been raped. She wanted the rape kit done, so we went to Mount Sinai. I have privileges there. I brought her in the back entrance and took her to a room. Once Officer Davies arrived, I did the examination. He took the photos and kit with him back to his precinct."

Munch admired the plaques and certificates on the wall. "What did you find during your exam?"

"Bruising, some bleeding, a few cuts and tears of the vaginal tissue. Evidence of penetration. I swabbed everything, but Marianne said he used a condom. I'll get you a copy of my notes."

"Do you know the judge well?" he asked.

"Yes. We met through our husbands. They used to golf together."

"Her husband died a few months ago, didn't he?"

She nodded. "Chester was young, only forty-five. Aortic aneurysm." She walked to her bookshelf and brought down a framed photograph. "This is the four of us. We chartered a sailboat to the British Virgin Islands in June, a month before he died."

"What does the housekeeper do while you're gone?"

She frowned at Munch's question. "Elena? I think for the past couple of years she's gone home to Russia. I'm really not sure."

Fin faced her. "Can you think of anyone who would do this to Judge Woodward?"

"No. Aside from the usual, that is. Parolees, criminals..." She shrugged. "Everyone likes and respects her. I know she'll get elected in the spring."

"Elected to what?"

"The New York Supreme Court. She's been an acting Justice for two years, and there will be an opening in March. She's going for it."

* * *

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
Tuesday, October 19_

Cragen stood in the center of the bullpen, a file in his hands. "Okay, where are we on the Woodward rape?"

"Olivia and I talked to the judge and the housekeeper," Elliot said. "We have an appointment to talk to the sister tomorrow afternoon."

Munch looked at the captain. "Fin and I took care of the patrol officer and the doctor."

"Then let's play show and tell," Cragen said, leaning against a desk. "Elliot, would you like to begin?"

His smile quickly disappeared as he focused on the case at hand. "The attack happened between eleven and twelve Sunday night and ended prematurely when the housekeeper, Elena Petrova, came home from the movies. She wasn't even supposed to come home at all. When she arrived, she found the judge blindfolded, gagged with a washcloth, and her wrists tied to the bedposts. Perp used a condom. Judge Woodward banged on the headboard until Elena came to investigate the noise, and he apparently slipped out unnoticed."

"Anybody see this guy come in or out of the building?" Cragen asked.

"I viewed the building's security tapes from Sunday night." Olivia stood by the chalkboard where she had drawn out a timeline. "Seven twenty-two: Judge Woodward leaves her apartment and gets on the elevator. Seven twenty-four -- after several starts and stops -- she gets off the elevator and heads out the front door. She had dinner reservations at Primorski with her sister, Carly Summers. Seven fifty-two: Elena Petrova leaves the building on her way to Bloomingdales and a Russian movie on Forty-Second Street."

"So the apartment is empty from eight o'clock on." Cragen folded his arms across his chest.

"And the housekeeper left the front door unlocked."

Fin snorted. "Great."

"The alarm was set," Olivia continued, "but get this. The next person to take the elevator to the top floor was Judge Woodward, at five after eleven."

"So he took the stairs," Munch said.

"There's a camera in the stairwell, too. It didn't pick up anything, _but_ unlike the camera fixed on the elevator, it swivels back and forth."

Fin sighed. "If the perp knew how the cameras worked, he could've timed it so that he'd never be seen."

"So he planned it," Cragen said. "But he didn't plan on Elena coming home before he finished the job. Did the cameras pick up anything when he left?"

"Nothing on the elevator, but there was this on the stair camera early Monday morning." She handed him a still photograph with the time stamp 00:12. "Say cheese."

The camera had been pointing down the stairwell at the time. It captured the figure of a person, presumably the rapist, wearing a long, dark cape with a wide-brimmed hat that obscured his face from the shot. Cragen frowned. "Okay, he's tall. Age indeterminate. Race indeterminate. Hair color, eye color, distinguishing features -- all indeterminate. Dressed like Count Dracula in a black cowboy hat."

Olivia shrugged one shoulder. "He didn't show up on any other cameras after that, stairwell or elevator. So either he started dodging the cameras again or he lives on the floor below her."

"Perp also likes _The A Team_," Elliot added. "At some point during the attack, he told the judge, 'I love it when a plan comes together.' I fed the quote into the computer to see if there were any other _A Team_-loving rapists in the system, but I came up empty-handed."

Cragen rubbed his forehead. "Anything else of interest?"

"Yeah," he said. "Elena, the housekeeper, cleaned up the bedroom while the judge was with her sister. Vacuumed, dusted, et cetera. CSU got the bedding from the cleaners before they washed it, and they confiscated the vacuum. Everything's in the lab. I'll harass them for the results later."

"And for what it's worth," Olivia added, "Elena's a rape victim too. Perp's behind bars, courtesy of Judge Woodward."

He nodded. "All right, Munch, Fin, what do you have?"

Munch opened his file. "After the attack, Judge Woodward called two people: her doctor, Libby Shaw, and a Queens patrol officer, Brent Davies. We talked to Officer Davies first. He is forever in the judge's debt because she sentenced the man who raped and murdered his daughter back in oh-two. So when she called him about a rape in the wee hours of morning, he was more than willing to meet her at Mount Sinai."

"He was in the room while the rape kit was done," Fin continued. "Said he would do his best to find out who did this to her, that it was the least he could do. He took the rape kit back to his precinct's lab to be processed, and he said he'd put a rush on the results."

"What about the good doctor?" Cragen asked. "Libby Shaw?"

Munch flipped to a different page. "Her examination showed evidence of penetration, vaginal only. Also some bruising to her inner thigh, vaginal bleeding, cuts and tears of the tissue. ALS didn't show any fluids on the body."

"Did she indicate any possible suspects?"

"No," Fin said, "but she did mention that Judge Woodward recently announced her decision to run for Supreme Court Justice. Turns out one of the justices is retiring and the position will be open on March first."

Cragen waited for more, but his detectives didn't speak. "Okay. Any theories?"

Elliot shook his head. "The doorman who was on duty didn't report anyone suspicious, and whenever there's a visitor, be it pizza delivery, cable guy, friend, whoever -- he calls up to the resident for confirmation before letting them in."

"Judge Woodward was the target," Munch said. "If it was an act of opportunity, the housekeeper's return home wouldn't have stopped him. Probably the opposite."

"And the perp would have to be familiar with the building," Fin added.

Cragen counted off each finger on his hand. "Building employee, resident, who else?" They were silent. "Anybody? Then keep looking. This is a high profile case, and the last thing we need is One PP breathing down our necks."

* * *

_Crime Lab  
1 Police Plaza  
Tuesday, October 19_

"All right, what do you have for us?"

The pale-faced lab technician looked up from her microscope with all the seriousness of a school marm. "You're kidding me, right?"

Elliot matched her expression. "No. Come on, Tara, it's been a while."

"A while?" she repeated. "I don't think I've had this evidence for twenty-four hours."

"Well, have you found anything in the last twenty-four hours?"

She rolled her eyes and hopped off the stool. "We _did_ go through the bedding. Found some fluid on the sheets -- probably hers. A few blond hairs -- also probably hers. And this." She stepped back from the microscope and let the two detectives have a look.

"Is that someone's hair? It's awfully short." Olivia asked as she peered down the slender tube. She lifted her head long enough to let Elliot examine the slide.

"Actually, it is a black fiber. One hundred percent polyester. Texturized. Popular for its wrinkle resistance. Dry clean only." The detectives didn't look amused, and she cocked an eyebrow. "It's called wonder crêpe. Commonly used to make judge's robes. Victim's a judge, right?"

Elliot heaved an annoyed sigh. "Did you find anything that might lead us to a suspect?"

"You might want to check with Suzie over in Latent. She's working on the prints they pulled off the door handle. No guarantees though. We're backed up enough as it is. Not enough scientists, out of date equipment..." Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed her impending rant. "Check back in a few weeks; maybe we'll have something more concrete."

"We don't have a few weeks."

"Sorry, Detectives."

Elliot opened his mouth again, but Olivia nudged him. He walked out of the lab. "Thank you for your time," she said before following him. "What's the matter with you?"

"What?"

"You're acting like a child. I told you that the lab wouldn't have any results, but you insisted we go anyway and then you treat the tech like it's her fault."

"Maybe it is." Before she could object, he continued, "We have no suspects, no evidence, no leads, no nothing. All we have is a grainy black and white photograph and an uncooperative housekeeper."

"And a cranky detective," she muttered.

"What did you say?"

Olivia sighed and silently counted to five. "Look, whatever's bothering you? Take it out on me, take it out on yourself, but don't take it out on everyone else." She reached out and squeezed his forearm. "I'll be here when you need me, partner."

He watched her walk down the hallway and turn the corner. With a shake of his head, he followed.

* * *

Casey Novak strode into the bullpen. Fin and Elliot looked up but said nothing. Cragen came out of his office, red licorice in hand, and tilted his head in greeting. Munch and Olivia remained oblivious to her arrival. "Do you have a television?" she asked. 

"Yeah, it's upstairs," Cragen said. "What's wrong?"

"Judge Woodward was raped last night."

Elliot nodded. "We know; we're investigating it."

"Did you know she's giving a press conference right now regarding it?" From the looks on their faces, they clearly didn't. "Two of the major networks have interrupted their programming."

They hurried upstairs to the crib, where Munch turned on the old eighteen-inch set and found a channel that was covering the interview.

Marianne Woodward stood on the steps of the courthouse despite the light rain that had begun to fall. Anxiety and lack of sleep had extinguished the fire in her eyes, but she spoke with a conviction that had everybody captivated. "_...and I refuse to be a statistic,_" she was saying. "_Do you know that a woman is raped every six minutes in this country? Every six minutes. This is a serious crime, and as you know, it can happen to anyone. My housekeeper, Elena ... raped during a burglary attempt at the restaurant where she worked. My sister, Carly ... raped by a professor in college. And now me, raped in my own home by an unknown assailant._"

"The sister's a victim, too?" Olivia asked. "Coincidence?"

Elliot shrugged, and Casey said, "That's how she got into criminal law. Vengeance for her sister."

"_How do you feel about the attack?_" a reporter shouted out.

"_I feel violated. Humbled. But I don't feel defeated. The most important weapon that I have is my strength. I have every confidence that the Manhattan Special Victims Unit will find the man who did this to me and put him away. I will continue to serve this city and its people by making sure that convicted sex offenders do not get out on parole. And if I am elected to the Supreme Court in the spring, you have my word that the laws of this state will be changed to protect the victims of these terrible crimes, not the perpetrators._"

"She just had to get that in there, didn't she?" Fin muttered.

Elliot continued to stare at the television. "I thought she wanted to avoid a media circus."

"_Finally,_" Judge Woodward said, "_I want all of the victims to know that they are not alone. There are many wonderful support groups available, and to show you just how wonderful I think they are, I am donating ten thousand dollars to each of them._"

"That's enough of that," Munch said, turning off the television amidst a round of applause from the press.

Casey shook her head. "One of New York's greatest sexual assault advocates becomes a victim herself. It's like a sick joke."

"Maybe that's the point," Olivia said. "No one is safe."

Cragen nodded absently then looked at the detectives. "Okay, let's get back to work." He started to follow them out but stopped when he realized Casey wasn't following. "Did you know her well?"

The ADA hugged herself, eyes still fixed on the blank screen. "I knew her enough to like her. We've talked at social functions, even had lunch a few times. I admire her. She's tough. Extremely dedicated. She does a lot of good for the victims. No matter how she spun those donations at the press conference, it's not the first time she's given money to victim support groups." Her attention was miles from the conversation at hand, and for a moment, Cragen thought she was finished. "Do you remember that public service announcement I was involved in earlier this year?"

He frowned. "Vaguely."

"Judicial Advocates Against Sexual Assault. There were the commercials and the print ad--"

"--and the nightly news spot. I remember now."

"The whole thing was Judge Woodward's idea. She hoped it would compel more victims to report their abuse if they saw the faces of justice."

Cragen nodded as she spoke. "I remember having a surge of reported rapes come in around the time the ads appeared. Who else was involved in that?"

"The ADAs from each borough who work with Special Victims and a few judges who hear sexual assault cases: Judges Woodward, Terhune, Leonard, Petrovsky... We had a good turnout. A lot of people wanted to show their support."

"Could you get me a list of the people who were there?"

"I don't know about the camera crew, but I've got some pictures from the different shoots. I'll bring them by later."

"Thanks." He paused for a moment then folded his arms across his chest. "Do you think she'll get elected to the Supreme Court?"

"She doesn't have much opposition, but even if she did, she really is the best person for the job. And after this, she'll definitely be a favorite." Casey frowned. "You don't think she staged her own rape to gain the upper hand, do you?"

"Right now, I think anything's possible."

_End of part one_


	2. Chapter 2 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects,.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

A/N: Neglected to mention that at the time I started this fic, Elliot and Kathy were still (presumably) happily married. It remains as such in this fic.

_The Price of Justice_ 2/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Pauley's Cafeteria  
Brooklyn, New York  
Wednesday, October 20_

"She's late."

Olivia nodded. "A little."

Elliot peered out of the restaurant's windows once more before leaning back and stretching his arm across the booth seat. "Those cheese fries are looking pretty good right about now."

"Too much grease," she said, poking him in the ribs. "You need to go running with me, open up those arteries."

"I do run."

"Chasing the twins around the house is not what I had in mind." He didn't say anything, a far away look on his face. She frowned. "Elliot?"

"Hey, what do we know about the sister? Anything?"

She let the change in subjects go -- for now -- and thought back to the research she had done on Carly Summers last night. "She's twelve years younger than Judge Woodward."

"Twelve years?"

"Vasectomy gone wrong."

"Ouch."

"She has a degree in business finance but runs a pretty popular private investigation firm that works in New York and New Jersey. They do process serving, security system installation, typical spy work."

"Did you find out anything about the rape? Anything to tie it to the judge's attack?"

Olivia shook her head. "The circumstances aren't similar at all. In her junior year of college, Carly's British Literature professor asked her to stay late to discuss an essay she had written. He raped her. Her roommate convinced her to go to the authorities. The criminal trial was carried out by one of the district attorneys. Unfortunately, the jury didn't think there was enough evidence for a conviction and he was acquitted. Judge Woodward represented her in a civil case -- quite successfully, I might add."

"Big award?"

"Oh, yeah." She took a sip of her water. "After the rape, she became addicted to barbiturates. She kicked the drug habit after a stay in rehab, but now she's started drinking. She's had two drunk and disorderly charges and one DUI, all of them dismissed."

"Must be nice, having a sister around to bail you out of everything."

"Actually, Carly's own money and a little community service got her out of trouble. Judge Woodward didn't do anything."

"Though the fact that she's a judge probably didn't hurt." His eye caught sight of a woman walking into the restaurant, the only female to come in alone in the last half hour. "Is that her?"

"Can't be. She looks nothing like Judge Woodward."

The woman approached and sat across from them. "Sorry I'm late. I had something I needed to take care of." They stared at her. "You're Benson and Stabler, right?"

Elliot was surprised. "There are probably fifty people in here, most of them couples. How'd you spot us so fast -- or were you peeking in the windows with binoculars?"

"You look like cops." At their frown, she sighed in annoyance. "You're too business, she's too casual. You're on the same side of the booth, but you're not a cutesy newlywed couple. Farthest booth back with a view of the door. Simple."

Carly Summers was the polar opposite of her sister by way of physical appearance. Where Judge Woodward had fair hair and blue eyes, Carly's features were rich brown, almost coffee-colored, and she wore her hair in a ponytail fixed loosely at the nape of her neck. Coupled with the fact that she was around six feet tall (another noticeable difference between she and her sister), she could have easily been a model.

She gave her order to the exhausted waitress then glanced down her nose at the detectives. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"We already ate," Elliot lied, making a mental note to order the fries after their meeting. "We'll make this as brief as we can; I'm sure you're very busy."

"Business is booming."

"Why don't you give us your version of Sunday night?"

She stretched her long arms overhead as if she had not a care in the world. "I joined my sister for dinner at Primorski. Don't ask me why I agreed to eat there; I hate Russian food. Anyway, dinner was at eight, and we left when the wine bottle was empty, which, not so coincidentally, was when it stopped being fun."

Olivia raised her eyebrows. "Do the two of you get along?"

"That's what I love about living in New York. Same city but we rarely see each other, although I see her more often than she sees me. Gotta love television. Marianne has been trying to reconcile for years, to make up for all the bullshit she put me through after I was raped."

"Meaning?"

"Back then -- it was ninety-three -- Marianne was doing estate planning or personal injury or some type of civil casework. Hell, maybe she was a criminal defense lawyer. I don't know. Marianne and I were never very close, and we had nothing in common. But when I was raped, she jumped on it like a lion going for the kill. The criminal trial was awful, and when the foreman said 'not guilty' and that bastard judge just let him go, let him walk right out of the courthouse..." She shook her head as if the action was enough to erase the memory. "I didn't want to go through a civil trial. But Marianne ... I don't know, for the first time in my life, I really thought she cared about what happened to me, like she was trying to do what was best for me. Like I wasn't a wrinkle in her lifelong plan."

"And?" Olivia prompted.

"I was wrong. She paraded me around New York as the sweet victim, an innocent college girl trying to better herself, and my Brit Lit professor as the Doctor Jekyll, Mister Hyde type, taking advantage of all those innocent college girls. But to my sister's credit, she was brilliant. The jury bought every word."

"What happened when it was over?" Elliot asked.

"I think I was more scarred because of the trial than I was because of the rape, and I stopped speaking to my sister. She sent letters, placed calls, tried to communicate with me, but I refused. I was angry. We tried a few times to be friendly, mostly at holidays, but it never worked out, and I just gave up. But then our father died suddenly, and I thought that maybe I should make nice with her because you never know how long you have. That was a mistake. She's still the same power-driven woman she was when I was raped, and I'm still the same sweet victim." She scoffed. "I put that rape behind me years ago, and now she's bringing it up again -- during a city wide press conference, no less. I've already lost two clients because of her announcement."

Elliot looked at his partner then back at Carly. "Back to Sunday. What happened after you went home?"

"I watched the news, fell asleep sometime during the weather. A few hours later, the phone rang."

"Who called you?"

"Officer Davies. He told me that Marianne had been raped and to come over to Mount Sinai. I remember thinking, 'Well, now we finally have something in common'." The waitress returned with a small side salad and a glass of water, and Carly nodded her thanks. "She was still in with the doctor when I arrived, and her good-for-nothing housekeeper was gone, as usual." She stuffed half of a boiled egg into her mouth and chewed.

Olivia decided to ignore the comment about Elena for now. "Did Marianne stay with you that night?"

"She needed a place to stay and like I said, we finally had something in common."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your sister?"

"Detective, she spends eight hours of her day putting sex offenders and other violent criminals behind bars. I'm surprised she hasn't been threatened yet -- or worse." She took a few more bites of her salad and stood, tossing a ten dollar bill on the table. "If that's all?"

"You don't seem too concerned about your sister's attack."

"She never gave a damn about me. Why should I give a damn about her?" She walked out of the restaurant without a glance over her shoulder and disappeared into the crowd.

"Well, that was interesting," Elliot said, flagging down the waitress. "Can we get a large order of cheese fries, please?"

Olivia rolled her eyes at his order. "When you're in the hospital having bypass surgery, I'm not visiting you."

"You don't have to. You'll be in the bed next to me having the same surgery. Maybe we can get them on special -- a two-for-one deal." He looked at Carly's nearly-full salad plate. "So what do you think?"

"She has a lot of guilt and a lot of anger."

"Did you hear her comment about Elena? 'Good-for-nothing housekeeper'? 'Gone as usual'?"

"We should talk to Elena again -- and Judge Woodward. Get their sides of the story." The plate of french fries, coated mercilessly with a rich cheese sauce, appeared before them. "Oh, El." She reached for a fry, but he pulled the plate away.

"I don't recall you wanting any."

"I don't, but I have to save you from coronary difficulties." She grabbed one before he could stop her and put it in her mouth. "Mmm. Very good."

"So you wanna go to the judge's chambers then over to the hotel and talk to Elena?"

"Yeah," she said, sneaking another fry. "Later."

* * *

"You owe me for this." Casey unloaded an armful of court transcripts on the nearest unoccupied desk. "And that's just the civil trial. Criminal trial is larger." 

Munch picked up the first thick transcript. "_Carly L. Summers v. Devon R. Castle_, circa nineteen ninety-six. Three years after the rape?"

"There was a lot of discovery. Judge Woodward milked it for everything it was worth. I skimmed a few pages; it made _me_ want to do civil work." She glanced around the squadroom. "Where is everybody?"

"Elliot and Olivia are interviewing the judge's sister. Fin's having an early lunch with his friends from Narcotics." The telephone rang, and he picked up the receiver. "Special Victims Unit, this is Detective Munch."

"_Munch, it's Elliot. We just finished meeting with Carly Summers. She and her sister don't speak much, and she implied that it had something to do with her rape trial. Did Casey come back with the transcript?_"

"Hot off the presses."

"_Good. See if there's anything useful in there._"

"Will do. You two headed back to the precinct?"

"_Not yet. We're going to talk to the judge. Carly also had some pretty interesting comments about Elena, so we're going to pay her another visit too._"

"All right, see you later." He hung up and looked at Casey. "You busy?"

"Not at the moment. Why?"

He held up the first transcript. "I need your help."

* * *

Judge Woodward ushered Elliot and Olivia into her chambers. "I hope you don't mind if I eat while we talk. I have an emergency TRO hearing in half an hour." 

"Not at all," Elliot replied, "but we do have some additional questions."

"Like why you decided to schedule a press conference," Olivia said.

"With all due respect, Detectives, this is my life we're talking about. If I know my investigative procedure, at some point you would have to interview my friends, family members, co-workers. That's bound to turn a few heads, maybe even attract the attention of some journalist hanging around the courthouse. I thought it would be more appropriate coming from me rather than a talking head on the evening news." She waved her hand before Olivia could speak again. "Don't worry, Detectives. The details of my attack will remain privileged. I don't want to jeopardize your investigation."

Olivia smiled and folded her arms across her chest. "Why didn't you tell us you were running for Supreme Court Justice?"

She stopped in mid-bite. "Was that information pertinent?"

"You're a judge. You know how it looks to a jury when something gets left out. Even the little things, like political ambitions."

"I see your point," she conceded with a nod. "It's ... unsettling to be on this side of the fence. I had a dream once, that I was presiding over my own rape trial. You ever have a dream like that, where you're investigating your own rape, or the rape of a loved one?"

"We have a photograph of your attacker," Elliot said. "Unfortunately, it's not clear enough to make out any features, but it appears that he escaped through the stairwell. Do you know the people who live on the floor below you?"

"You think they did it?"

"We're just examining all possibilities."

"Well, two families live below me. Mr. Taylor is paralyzed from the waist down, and Reverend Jacobs is a Presbyterian minister."

Olivia looked at her partner then back at the judge. "A reverend can afford to live in your building?"

"His wife is a stockbroker."

"Have you had any problems recently?" she asked. "With other residents, management, attorneys, judges?"

"No." She sat her sandwich down and folded her hands together. "I honestly can't think of anyone who would do this, and it would take you years to interview everyone that I'm acquainted with." Her eyes lit up. "I am hosting a small get-together on Friday night, however."

"What kind of get-together?" Elliot asked.

"To celebrate my nomination for Justice. A pep rally, though without all the balloons and lengthy speeches. I'd be glad to extend an invitation to the members of the Special Victims Unit. You can speak to some of my friends and colleagues."

"We'll be there."

"Black tie," she said.

Elliot chuckled. "Good thing I own my own tux."

Judge Woodward nodded and picked up her sandwich again. Before taking a bite, she asked, "Is there anything else?"

"We talked to your sister," Olivia said. "She had quite a lot to say."

"Yes, I'm sure she was angry with me. She has been ever since the day she was born. We have a significant age difference, and while I was planning for college, she was starting kindergarten. We were never close, but when she was raped--" She sighed. "Forgive the way this sounds, but I saw that as my opportunity to gain her love. It seemed to have had the opposite effect, and we've hardly spoken since."

Elliot hesitated before speaking. "She doesn't like Elena either, does she?"

"No."

"Any idea why?"

"If you had asked me a week ago, I would've said jealousy. Elena is younger, yet we get along better than Carly and I ever did."

"And if we ask you now?"

Judge Woodward dropped her sandwich again and pushed it away, frowning. "After her fourth glass of wine that night, Carly started chastising me over my lifestyle, my late husband, my housekeeper, everything. Most of it was ridiculous, but then she told me that she knew things about Elena that I didn't know. She said Elena had stolen something from me, but she wouldn't say what."

_...good-for-nothing housekeeper..._ The words echoed in Elliot's head. "Did you find any evidence that she had been stealing? Money, valuables?"

"Valuables, no. Money, I suppose it's possible. If she has, I've never noticed. I give her a weekly sum that she uses to do grocery shopping, make household purchases, that sort of thing. She gives me all of the receipts at the end of the week."

"Do you look through them?" Olivia asked.

"Chester was always good with finances; he used to go through them. I glance over them, but I don't scrutinize." She sighed at them. "She's been a member of my family for years. I trust her."

He noted the slight hesitancy in her voice. "Have the two of you fought lately?"

"Since Chester's death, it's been ... hard."

"Why?"

"I think she saw us as surrogate parents, and she was very upset when he died. She would lock herself in her room and cry for hours on end. When I tried to talk to her about it, she grew hostile. I suggested therapy; she screamed obscenities in Russian and stormed out."

Olivia straightened. "When was this?"

"In August. She was gone for a day and a half. I was about to file a missing persons report when she suddenly reappeared. Everything was fine after that."

A dozen different ideas formed in his mind, but he wasn't about to say them in the presence of the judge. He felt Olivia shift her weight to the other foot, a sign that she had something to tell him as well. "If you think of anything else, you'll give us a call?"

"Of course." She stood and reached for her robe. "It's almost time for my hearing anyway." She walked out with them then disappeared into the elevator.

Elliot sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Think it's political?"

"Everything is political," his partner said. "But now I'm wondering about Elena and her thirty-six hour sabbatical."

"Yeah. Where do you think she went?"

"Losing a loved one like that, especially someone she saw as a father figure... Maybe she couldn't handle the stress and had to get away." She paused. "What do you think Carly was reluctant to tell the judge? Think it's related?"

"I don't know." He paused. "If she stole money, do you think it was for drugs?"

"Could've been to pay a man to rape her boss. She left the door unlocked; what if it wasn't an accident?"

He nodded. "Let's go talk to Elena."

* * *

"This is incredible." 

Munch raised an eyebrow. "Your burger?"

"No, this report." Casey took another bite, her eyes focused on the Woodward rape file. "'I love it when a plan comes together'? Classic television fodder."

"I always assumed you were a vegetarian."

The comment caught her off guard -- hell, it even surprised _him_ -- and she looked up with a curious smile. "Why?"

'Because I have an unnatural interest in the kinds of food you eat' would probably make him sound too much like a stalker. "Well, I seem to remember you eating a giant meatless salad once."

"I had a craving for ranch dressing." She met his gaze and repeated, "Why?"

"I guess I was surprised by your food selection, considering your high level of physical activity. Salad, loaded with dressing or not, I could understand, but the cheeseburger and fries..."

"Always keep them guessing."

"Indeed."

She closed the cover to the file and leaned back in her chair. "Well, your burger is twice as big as mine."

"Yeah, but it's got all the vegetables on it. Tomatoes, lettuce."

"But the mayonnaise..."

"It's Miracle Whip."

Casey laughed. "Somehow, I don't think that matters in the long run."

He chuckled, swirling a french fry in the pile of ketchup. She was still looking at him; he could feel it. He hadn't needed her help in deciphering the court transcript, nor did she have to read the investigative reports they had collected thus far. He was certain that she knew this. No, his invitation had been yet another masked attempt to get to know her better, when it would be easier to just ask her to dinner. Of course, without an underlying and innocuous reason, the chances of her turning him down increased by a factor of--

"Do you like Indian cuisine?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Best indigestion I've ever experienced."

Her smile was genuine, and for the first time he noticed the brilliant emerald color of her eyes. _Bad idea,_ he told himself. If he was going to start giving a name to the exact shade of her irises, he might as well dig his grave now.

She shifted in her seat. "Well, I know this little place--"

His cell phone rang once. He held his breath and waited, gaze locked with hers. The ring sounded again. Casey shook her head and went back to eating her burger. He removed the infernal device from his pocket. "Munch."

"_Hey, man, where are you?_" came Fin's voice. "_We were supposed to work on these transcripts, remember?_"

"A man's gotta eat. I'm almost done; I'll be there in ten minutes."

There was a pause. "_You're not alone, are you? Who--_"

Munch disconnected the call before his mouth got him into more trouble than necessary. "I've been summoned back to the precinct."

"Go ahead. I'm going to catch a cab back to my office. I have a hearing this afternoon, and I need time to prepare."

For a reason that he shoved into the farthest corner of his mind, he was sorry to see her go.

* * *

"Detectives." Elena looked surprised to see Elliot and Olivia standing outside the hotel room. "Can I help you?" 

"May we come in?" Olivia asked.

With a suspicious glance at them, she let them enter. "When can I return to the apartment?"

Elliot took a quick glance at the suite. It was almost as elaborate as the judge's residence. "CSU hasn't finished their investigation, but it should be available to you tomorrow or Friday. Is there something you need in the meantime? I could have a patrol officer bring it by."

"No. Thank you." Almost as an afterthought, she asked, "Did you find out who did this to Ms. Woodward?"

Olivia shook her head. "Actually, we have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."

"Oh. Okay."

"Were you close to Chester Woodward?"

She blinked. Elliot could see the tears begin to form in her eyes. "Yes, very."

"Where did you go?" At her confused look, Olivia asked, "When you left for a day and a half after his death, where did you go?"

She hesitated. "I went to the airport. I even bought a ticket back to Moscow, but I couldn't get on the plane. I sat in the terminal until the next morning, when some security guards made me leave. So I went back to the apartment and told Ms. Woodward I was sorry."

He looked at Olivia and could tell by her expression that she had trouble believing her story. He wasn't so sure either. "What's your relationship like with Carly Summers?"

"Ms. Woodward's sister? Why? What did she say about me?"

"What do you think she said?"

She opened her mouth to reply but shut it just as quickly. "We are not friends, but Ms. Woodward is not friends with her sister either."

"What kind of things do you do for the judge?" Elliot asked.

"I clean house, cook dinner, do the grocery shopping--"

"Where do you get the money to go shopping?"

"From Ms. Woodward."

"She told us that you bring back the receipts and the remainder of the budgeted amount at the end of each week." He caught her gaze; the tears were gone, replaced by dark clouds of anger and frustration. "You fairly consistent in your spending?"

Elena exploded like a tea kettle. She began screaming in Russian, pacing the living area and pulling at her hair. Occasional bits of English -- phrases like 'that lying bitch' -- escaped her lips. When she raised her fist up, Elliot grabbed her wrist, and she cried out. "No!"

"That's enough," he spat. "Now sit down."

He released her, and she fell onto the couch, glaring at him. "I never stole from Ms. Woodward. That money is in the household expense account. I have my own money, and she has her own money. I pay the bills and buy the supplies, but that's all. I don't steal."

"Carly thinks you do."

"Elliot, come on," Olivia said gently.

Elena tilted her chin up, eyes glimmering with defiance. "She thinks that because she can stalk me legally with her investigator license that she knows everything. But she doesn't -- and she never will."

* * *

"Here, put these on." 

"Thanks." Elliot took a pair of booties from the investigator and slipped them over his shoes.

Olivia gave him some latex gloves. "What are we looking for?"

"Anything. Nothing. I don't know."

"You okay?"

"Fantastic." He headed into the judge's apartment, careful to avoid the areas where CSU was still working. "Which way should we go? Left, right, or straight?"

"Well, straight takes us to the conservatory. Right is the kitchen and judge's bedroom. Left is ... Elena's room, perhaps?"

"We'll go left." He scanned the living room. "Who's in charge here?"

"Me. Andy Baker." A lanky man with wire-rimmed glasses stood up. He had a pudgy, youthful face and a head of thick brown hair. His green eyes shifted to Olivia more than once. "You the lead detectives?"

"Elliot Stabler; my partner, Olivia Benson. Are the rooms to the left cleared?"

"Yes, sir. We started on the outside and worked our way in. Doesn't look like the perp even went that way."

"Okay, thanks." He headed down the hallway, Olivia close behind. The left wall of the short hallway was bare. There were only two rooms on the right, the first of which was a bathroom decorated in solid blue. He passed it and entered the second room, a scarcely furnished bedroom with peach walls. A pastel floral quilt covered the twin bed. There was a small dresser next to the door, but the top of it was void of any personal effects. Plain, mostly colorless clothes hung in the closet and three pairs of shoes sat neatly on the floor beneath them. The only hint that someone actually lived there was a small framed photograph of Elena on the nightstand.

"Is this Elena's room or a guest room?" she wondered aloud.

"It looks like Martha Stewart's prison cell."

"We should get a copy of her bank statements. She may have free room and board, but Judge Woodward has to pay her some kind of stipend."

He nodded, walking over to the nightstand. "Liv, how many pictures of yourself do you have in your apartment?"

"Of myself?"

"Of yourself by yourself."

She frowned. "Just one. Academy graduation picture. It was my mother's."

"Look at this." He held up the photograph from Elena's nightstand. The housekeeper had been captured in a casual laugh. "Typical?"

"I don't know. Then again, I'm not Russian."

He replaced the frame but continued to stare at it. "I want to see her financial records. Something doesn't make sense."

"A lot of this doesn't make sense."

"You can say that again."

_End of part two_


	3. Chapter 3 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

A/N: Thanks to those who are reviewing. It lets me know that at least someone out there is braving this beast!

_The Price of Justice_ 3/14  
by perfectvelvet

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
Thursday, October 21_

"How much money do you suppose the judge pays Elena?"

Fin snorted at Elliot's question. "Probably more than we make."

"So why is her checking account empty?"

Olivia leaned over her partner's shoulder. "Five hundred a month in deposits? Where does the rest of the money go?"

"Drugs?" Munch suggested.

"I don't think so."

"Yeah, she doesn't have any of the signs." Elliot stretched and hid a yawn. "We went by the apartment last night; she lives like a nun. Hardly any personal effects in her bedroom, fewer clothes than any woman I've ever known, no jewelry."

"You think she has a savings account somewhere?" Fin asked.

"Only if it's in Switzerland."

Munch frowned and shuffled through some papers on his desk. "Do we have her tax records?"

"Excuse me," came a voice, "is this the Special Victims Unit?"

They all looked up. A teenaged bicycle courier stood in the doorway, holding an envelope. Olivia smiled. "It is. Can we help you with something?"

"I have a delivery from The Honorable Marianne Woodward." He handed her a form which she signed and then gave her the envelope. "Have a nice day."

She opened it and pulled out a crisp white card with embossed gold lettering. "We've been invited."

"To what?" Munch asked with a scowl.

"Some political pep rally tomorrow night," Elliot replied. "Black tie only."

"Why have we been invited?"

"She invited some colleagues. It's a good way to interview other judges."

Olivia skimmed the rest of the invitation. "It starts at eight o'clock. All Special Victims Unit detectives and their guests are invited."

Fin shook his head. "Count me out."

"What about the overtime?" Elliot asked.

"Those parties are all about who has the most money and the most connections. Besides, I'm volunteering at the homeless shelter tomorrow night."

"Good for you." Olivia fanned herself with the invitation. "Well, I'll be there. We may not get another chance like this."

"Pick you up at quarter til?" her partner asked.

She nodded then looked at Munch. "You coming, John?"

"Of course. There's nothing I enjoy more than provoking the political elite."

Cragen stepped out of his office. "Any leads?"

She handed the invitation to him. "Elliot, Munch, and I are going."

He glanced at the card and nodded. "All right, but remember: you'll be working. Lay off the wine."

"Who said anything about wine?" she asked with a grin. "I'm going for the caviar."

Elliot wrinkled his nose, and Munch said, "Hopefully she'll serve those little hot dogs on a toothpick."

"Classy."

"Hey, I'm just your average guy."

"Settle down, children," Cragen said, returning the card to Olivia. "What else?"

Fin held up the file. "We've been going through the housekeeper's financials. She makes a decent amount of money, but her checking account is almost empty."

"Is she a suspect?"

"The sister said Elena stole from the judge," Elliot said. "In turn, Elena accused her of 'legally stalking' her. Sister's a PI."

Olivia continued, "Elena and Judge Woodward had been fighting after Chester Woodward's death. According to the judge, Elena had been depressed, crying, unable to function. She disappeared for a day and half then returned as if nothing had happened."

"Where did she go?"

"To the airport, supposedly with a ticket back to Moscow. Never took the flight, came back home."

Cragen rubbed the top of his head. "All right, people, this is getting out of hand. Bring in the sister. Don't let her go until she tells you about the housekeeper. Remind her that she's interfering with an ongoing police investigation. Check with the airlines and see if you can confirm the purchase of a ticket to Moscow. If there's nothing else?" They separated like football players receiving instructions from their coach and returned to the field to prepare for the next quarter.

* * *

Elliot lifted the papers from the fax machine's tray and sat back at his desk. "Looks like Munch's IRS friend pulled through." 

"Elena's tax records?" Olivia was at his side before he even realized she had gotten up.

"Yeah. Look at this. She makes a little over thirty thousand a year."

"Free room and board and still nets that much? Maybe I'm in the wrong line of work."

"You and me both."

She frowned as she examined the forms. "Okay, so she owns no property, no car, has no dependents and yet she banks only five hundred a month. Where does the rest of the money go?"

He thumbed through the pages. "Wait a minute. Last year, she claimed eleven thousand dollars as a gift."

"Eleven thousand? That's an odd amount."

"That's the limit before you start paying taxes on the gift money." He looked at the past few years. "She reached the limit every year. Not a penny over."

"Who'd she give that much money to?"

"I don't know." The W-2 raised several red flags in his mind, and he did some quick calculations. "If we assume exactly five hundred a month makes it into the bank, that's six thousand a year ... add the eleven thousand in gift money, and that leaves thirteen thousand unaccounted for, minus taxes."

"And she has no loans, she doesn't rent anything... Jesus, Elliot. Is thirteen thousand enough to hire a rapist?"

"I don't even want to know."

"Carly told her sister that Elena was stealing. And if she knew that, maybe she also knew why -- and what, if not money. We can ask her when she gets here."

He glanced at his watch. "She's late again. You get the feeling she doesn't want to talk to us?"

"Would _you_ want to talk to us?"

"Good point. Maybe she'll want to talk to Munch. He has a way with women." The joking expression on his face disappeared when he realized Munch wasn't even paying attention. Instead, he was on the telephone, speaking in a hushed tone. "Who's he talking to?"

"I don't know."

Elliot frowned, rolling his chair over to Munch's desk. "...thought you might like to come," the man was saying. When he noticed Elliot lingering nearby, he turned away from him and cupped his hand around the receiver. "Yeah, eight o'clock tomorrow night. Formal attire."

Elliot shot a glance at Olivia. "I think he's trying to find a date for the judge's party."

"Really?" She hurried over to them and put her ear against Munch's head, straining to hear the voice of the woman on the other line.

Munch slapped his hand over the mouthpiece, hissed "Go away!", and returned to his conversation. "Okay, I'll see you at seven-thirty then. Bye." He hung up and glared at Elliot and Olivia. "Can't a guy get a little privacy around here?"

"No," Elliot said, and Olivia slapped his arm. "So who's the lucky lady?"

"What makes you think it's a lady?"

Carly Summers walked into the squadroom, holding a dark brown briefcase in one hand and a styrofoam coffee cup in the other. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Glad you could make it," Elliot told her, and she sneered in response. "We'll be meeting in the interview room right in there. If you want to go in, have a seat, we'll be with you in a few minutes."

She walked past, giving him a cool stare, and entered the room next to Cragen's office. Munch peered in her direction. "That's the judge's sister?"

"Different as night and day," Olivia confirmed. She took the file and followed Carly.

After exchanging glances with Munch, Elliot joined them. "What did you and your sister talk about over dinner?"

"What did we _talk_ about? _That's_ why you brought me down here?" She scoffed and sat down. "Well, we talked about the weather, and the direct connection between reality TV and the degredation of society, and how I could probably make more money if I relocated to California. All in all, a pretty boring conversation."

"Your sister said you brought up Elena, and you hinted to us yesterday that you didn't think too highly of her. Any reason why?"

"She's not the sweet, innocent girl you think she is. She's ... crafty."

"What did she steal?" Olivia asked. "Money?"

Carly gave her a haughty smile. "No. You've got it all wrong." Her hard expression faltered, and she became somber, timid. Even her voice, usually so full of arrogance, softened. "Over the years, even when we weren't speaking, I would keep track of my sister. She always did so well for herself. Married her law school sweetheart, got herself on the right career path, became popular in all the right circles. Everything she's ever wanted, she's gotten. Except one thing. Elena took that from her, and if Marianne knew, she would be devastated."

Elliot's eyes widened. "She--"

"I love my sister. Keeping this from her is the only way I know how to prove that." Carly opened her briefcase and removed a slim manila folder. "Please use your discretion. We've both been hurt enough." She gathered her items and left the station.

Olivia watched her go then turned to the folder. It had no markings or labels. She lifted the flap. The document on top was written entirely in Cyrillic, but fortunately a translation to English was attached. It was a birth certificate. Nikolai Petrova, born on December 23, 1999 in Moscow. The mother was listed as Elena Petrova, the father ... blank. Olivia felt a small twinge in her chest; her own birth certificate looked similar.

"Is the year right?" she muttered to herself. "Wasn't she raped in ninety-seven?"

"It's not the rapist's baby, Liv. It's Chester Woodward's."

Her lips parted, but she said nothing. Carefully, she set the birth certificate aside and found a black and white photograph underneath. A very young Elena and a much older man -- Chester Woodward? -- having sex in what looked like a hotel room bed.

Elliot let out the breath he had been holding. "No wonder she didn't tell her sister."

"That's where the money's going. To Russia, for the baby."

"He's four now." He frowned again. "That's an awful lot of money, though. Eleven thousand a year in US dollars? Maybe she did pay someone to attack the judge."

"What's the point?"

"Humiliation? Maybe she secretly hates her."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But if she didn't do it, that leaves Carly."

She was already shaking her head. "She's angry and bitter, but there are other ways she could hurt her sister. Telling her about Chester and Elena's child, for one."

"Then the judge herself. The whole thing could've been staged. What did the doctor's report say? Cuts, bruising, bleeding. That's possible even during consensual sex. She was tied up, blindfolded, and gagged. Again, possibly consensual -- or intentional, to make it look like she was raped. Her lover wore a condom so he wouldn't be implicated by the investigation."

"To what end?"

"Political gain. It's the sympathy factor. Voters see her name on the ballot, and they think, 'That's the judge who was raped. She'll definitely change the laws to protect the victims.' They'll eat it up."

"I don't know, Elliot. I just don't see her as being that malicious. I think that by staging her own rape, she'd be going against everything she believes in."

"People do it all the time."

Olivia gave a small shrug. "I just don't get that impression from her."

"Okay. If not Elena and not Carly and not the judge herself, then who?"

"Someone who has easy access to the building. Resident, on-site maintenance worker, doorman."

"Then we need to go back through the list of all the employees and residents. Cross reference it with the sex offender database, check their rap sheets, watch all of the security tapes from that day."

"Yeah," she said with a sigh. "Let's get started."

* * *

Casey walked toward the elevator in the courthouse, trying not to grin too broadly. She'd just won her motion -- and won it by a landslide, leaving the defense attorney speechless and the judge impressed. There was no greater feeling than that. Too bad there was no one she could call and gloat to. 

"Ms. Novak?"

She turned around to see Judge Woodward looking up at her. "Yes, Your Honor?"

She opened her mouth to speak then chuckled when no words would come. "You argued your motion brilliantly this afternoon."

"You were there?" The hearing had been before Judge Terhune; Casey had been so focused on her speech, she didn't even notice anyone else in the courtroom. "Well, thank you."

"You work with the detectives assigned to my case."

It wasn't a question, but Casey nodded her reply.

"You'll be prosecuting my case after they make an arrest."

"Yes."

"I'm glad." Woodward gave her a slight smile. "You're a good attorney, Casey. There's no one else I'd rather have on my side. You ... remind me of myself when I was younger."

Whether it was a sincere compliment or a well-placed trick, it had the same effect. Casey's cheeks turned the same color as her hair. "I appreciate that very much, Your Honor."

Her grin widened. "I'll see you in court, Ms. Novak. I look forward to another performance like today's."

"I'll do my best."

Woodward squeezed her upper arm. "I know you will."

* * *

"Did you spot Zorro yet?" 

Olivia dropped her forehead against the arm that she had slung across the table. Elliot chuckled then looked at Munch. "Nope. You have any luck with the Russians?"

"Believe it or not, I found someone who confirmed that Elena gave birth at the Savior's Hospital for Peace and Charity in Moscow. A boy named Nikolai. No father."

"So Carly was telling the truth."

"And the airline confirmed that Elena purchased a ticket to Moscow in August but never took the flight." He gestured to the VCR. "How much do you have left?"

"We've gone through the front door camera's first twelve hours. Nobody in a black cape or a black hat."

"You know, maybe we should take into account that perhaps our mystery man donned his outfit _after_ coming through the front door."

Olivia lifted her head. "We already went through the cameras outside of the fitness center and parking garage. Nobody suspicious."

"Did you look at the janitor's locker room?"

"No." She exchanged glances with Elliot.

Munch leaned against the door frame. "The other day, the _Post_ reported a recent string of robberies in some of the high rise apartments in Manhattan, particularly on the Upper West Side. Now as we all learned back at the academy, some sexual crimes are secondary crimes."

"To things like robbery," Elliot finished. "If he's an employee, he might have seen both Judge Woodward and Elena leave. Then when his shift ended, he headed upstairs--"

"He would know the positioning of the cameras," Olivia added.

"--was robbing the apartment when the judge came home. Boom -- crime of opportunity."

Munch nodded. "Then, when Elena returned, he got spooked and left. He could've kept the cape and hat in his locker and put it back when he was done."

"Wouldn't that draw suspicion though?" Olivia asked. "Leaving the locker room in his disguise and heading for the stairwell?"

"I'll call the superintendent, see if we can get a building layout or a set of blueprints." Munch disappeared from the room.

She sat up straight and stretched. "I'm going to grab some dinner from across the street. You want your usual?"

"Yeah," he said absently, his face contorted into an expression of concentration. "You know, Liv, there are bits and pieces that still don't make any sense. Why didn't he rape Elena, too? If it was really a crime of opportunity, the judge was still bound and gagged. He could've overpowered Elena just as easily."

"Greater risk of being caught maybe. He attacked Judge Woodward in a dark bedroom then blindfolded her. Elena probably turned on the lights when she came home. If he wasn't wearing a mask, she might have been able to identify him."

He propped his head up with his hand and looked at her. "I don't think robbery has any play in this. I think Judge Woodward was the target."

"Which brings us back to square one."

"Maybe we'll get lucky at the party."

* * *

Cragen poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. The staleness made him wince. "How old is this?" 

"We made it at four," Fin answered, not looking up from his computer screen.

"It's nine-thirty."

"Already? Damn." He leaned back in his chair and stretched. "I think I'm gonna call it a night."

"How far did you get?"

"Two years back. Judge Woodward sentenced a lot of perps. A handful have been paroled; I've made a list to check out tomorrow, see if any of them have been in the neighborhood."

"What about residents?"

"Munch has that list. A few have some serious violations, the rest have unpaid parking tickets. That's another goal for tomorrow: talk to the people who live there."

"And the employees?"

"Elliot and Olivia have that covered."

"Take a few patrol officers with you; you can finish a lot faster."

"Will do, Cap." Fin slid on his leather jacket. "See you tomorrow."

"I'll be here -- with a fresh pot of coffee."

_End of part three_


	4. Chapter 4 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 4/14  
by perfectvelvet

"I thought all these celebrity types showed up fashionably late."

Olivia chuckled. "I think _we're_ the late ones -- and it's only quarter after."

Judge Woodward's gathering-cum-political-pep-rally was already in full swing when she and Elliot arrived. An orchestra had been set up near the far wall, and several couples waltzed nearby. A long, white-clothed buffet table was topped with various delicacies on bright silver platters, and opposite it was a full service bar staffed by a handsome man in a tuxedo. Crystal chandeliers, candlelit tables, and elegant chairs completed the scene, and Olivia wondered if she had stepped into an entirely different world when she had walked through the door.

"Jeez, Elliot ... it's like a cross between senior prom and the Academy Awards."

"Good analogy."

"I feel a little underdressed," she said, gazing down at her black slacks and pale grey blouse then comparing them to the gowns of the other women.

"You look nice."

"Nice compared to knock-out."

"You wanna go back and change?"

"No." She lifted her chin. "Besides, I may have to kick some ass, and I can't do that in three inch heels and a floor-length dress."

"That's my girl." He spotted Judge Woodward and nodded in that direction. "There's the guest of honor, and look -- she's wearing pants, too. So's Judge Petrovsky, over there. You're in good company." He put a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the buffet table. "Come on, I'm starving."

"I guess I could go for some caviar." They picked up plates and utensils from one end of the table and made their way down. Olivia glanced over her shoulder while waiting for Elliot to spoon out some cocktail sauce. "When she said 'small gathering', I expected to see ten, fifteen people. This is more like forty or fifty. We need to think up a game plan."

"We'll eat at one table, drink at another, dance a few times--"

"I don't dance."

"--mingle with the small groups." A smile spread across his face, and he pointed to a chafing dish. "Look, Liv. Hot dogs on a toothpick."

"Munch will be happy. Speaking of Munch, where is he?" Her eyes drifted to the entrance, and as if on cue, he stepped into the room, a woman on his far side. "It's about time."

Elliot waved, catching Munch's attention. He said something to his companion, and they headed toward them. When Elliot realized who was walking beside the other detective, his jaw went slack. "Wow."

Olivia looked at the couple with wide eyes then glanced at her partner. "Close your mouth; you're a married man."

Casey Novak's smile was like a spotlight, bright and beaming. If this had been a senior prom, she would've won the title of Prom Queen. She wore her strapless, scarlet gown like a second skin, and her hair was styled elegantly atop her head. The perfect shade of makeup, alabaster skin... She looked nothing like herself. "Good evening, Detectives."

Chin still dropped, Elliot said, "Knock-out Novak, way to go."

She gave Elliot a small curtsy before blinding Olivia with her smile. "Hi, Olivia. You look nice."

"Thanks, but there's really no comparison. Hi, John."

Although he would deny it if someone happened to mention it, he stood taller beside Casey, chest puffed out with pride. "Olivia, Elliot."

She resisted the urge to laugh at his formal tone. "We were just getting something to eat. Then we need to work out a strategy for this evening." She glanced at Elliot, whose eyes were still locked on Casey. With a sigh, she pushed his mouth shut. "Come on, before you drool all over yourself."

That snapped him out of his reverie. "We'll save you a seat."

Munch guided his date to the buffet table. "Time for everyone's favorite party game: name that food." He stared at the first plate which held a pile of colors on top of a cracker. "What bizarre yet bland concoction is this?"

"We'll see." She put one of the items on her plate. "There's shrimp," she said, pointing to the various dishes down the line. "Caviar. Pâté." She ignored them but took a few of the crackers that had been reserved for them.

"Sushi rolls?"

"No, thanks. I like my food dead."

He smiled at her. "Let's see... Hey, hot dogs on a toothpick."

"L'il smokies," she corrected, plucking a few of the hors d'oeuvres out of the dish. "My kind of appetizer."

"Mine, too."

At the other end of the table was a display of fresh fruit, and she filled the empty space on her plate with that. "All right, let's see if we can find Elliot and Olivia."

"Over there." He pointed his plate to a table near the dance floor. "Who are they with? Aside from Judge Woodward, that is."

"Hmm, looks like Judge Leonard, Judge Brady, and Judge ... Phillips? Wow, haven't seen him since I was prosecuting white collar crimes. He's grown quite a beard."

"He looks like Santa Claus."

She chuckled. "Yeah, he kind of does." They headed toward the table. "The man next to him is Martin Leonard. He presides over a few SVU cases every now and then. Nice guy. Also a member of the Judicial Advocates Against Sexual Assault."

"Judge Big Head, got it."

"John!" She tried not to laugh.

"Well, look at it. Not the kind of guy I'd like to sit behind in a movie theater."

"Gloria Brady is the last one. She moved to the civil circuit a few months ago." She paused. "No nickname for her?"

He looked at the plump grandmotherly woman at the table and pressed his lips together in thought. "All in good time."

"Ms. Novak, it's good to see you," Judge Woodward greeted when they reached the table. "A guest of the police, I take it?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Well, you look quite lovely." The other judges at the table nodded in agreement.

"Thank you."

Alfred Phillips leaned over and took her hand. "Counselor, I haven't seen you for a while. Where have you been hiding?"

"Special Victims Unit," she answered.

"Ooh, quite a change from white collar." He laughed, a deep, jolly chuckle that reminded her exactly of Santa Claus. Munch nudged her under the table. "Any desire to come back? I could talk to Arthur, if you'd like."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, but thank you."

"Well, if you'll all excuse me." Judge Woodward stood up and approached a small cluster of other judges.

Martin Leonard took a sip from his wine glass. "So, Detectives, any luck in finding the bastard who attacked Marianne?"

"We can't discuss an ongoing investigation," Elliot told him.

"Of course not. My apologies."

"But that doesn't mean you can't help us out," Munch said. "Do you have any idea who would've done it?"

"She _does_ have one of the toughest dockets on the bench," Phillips said. "Maybe it was one of the men she put away."

"Or just some random psycho," Leonard added. "This is New York City, after all. He could've seen her on television, fixated on her."

"Is she on TV a lot?" Olivia asked before popping a caviar-loaded cracker into her mouth.

"A decent amount."

Judge Brady made a sound, and Elliot turned to her. "Doesn't sound like you agree."

Martin and Phillips both looked at her. She opened her mouth then closed it, finally settling on a non-committal "I agree."

The orchestra began playing a new song, and Judge Phillips smiled. "Come on, Gloria. A little two-step will cheer you up."

Brady's eyes met Elliot's as she rose. "Enjoy the party, Detectives."

"I, too, must be going," Leonard announced. "If you have any further questions, you can reach me in chambers."

"Did you see that?" Olivia muttered once he was gone. "The power they had over Judge Brady."

"She wants to talk," Munch agreed.

"Well, that's convenient because I want to dance." Elliot stood, straightening his jacket. "Maybe we can help each other. Excuse me."

Olivia leaned forward and looked around Munch. "Casey, are all the guests judges?"

"No. See the guy in the white tuxedo? That's Brad Schroeder."

"From Channel Five?" Munch did a double take. "He looks different without makeup."

"I also saw Paige Turner from the _Post_ and Jacob Sweeney from the _Times_. Separately, of course. Check tomorrow's society pages; there's bound to be a write-up."

"The blonde over by the buffet table is Doctor Shaw," Munch said.

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "The doctor who did the rape exam? What's she doing here?"

"These parties are all about money," Casey explained, emphasizing her point by stabbing the air with her toothpick. "Doctor Shaw is probably making a nice donation to Judge Woodward's campaign fund."

"Hey," Munch said, "I think I see my dentist."

"The media presence is interesting though," she continued. "I've been to several of these functions and reporters are rarely invited."

"Do you think she's capitalizing on her rape?" Olivia asked.

Casey shook her head. "I know you're trying to investigate this matter from every angle, but I can't imagine her doing something like that. You've heard the stereotype that judges are dishonest and can be bought with the right amount of money. Well, if there's one honest judge left in the world, it's Marianne Woodward."

The silence that followed was interrupted by Munch clearing his throat. "We should get started."

Olivia stood up. "All right. I'm going to work the room. See what you can find out from the guests: any theories on the attack, possible suspects, people's thoughts about the judge, anything -- but be discreet. We'll reconvene in two hours."

"I'm going to talk to Santa Claus," Munch said.

Casey managed a smile. "Judge Phillips. Call him Your Honor; he prefers it if people are respectful when speaking to him."

"You take all of the fun out of it."

* * *

"May I have this dance?"

Gloria Brady seemed surprised by Elliot's offer but nodded and allowed herself to be led to the dance floor. "You're one of the detectives, right?"

He doubted she had forgotten. "I am."

"Well, I hope you catch the guy."

"We're working on it." The musicians played an unusually jazzy version of 'Mack the Knife', and he hoped his feet would cooperate with the quicker steps. "You know Judge Woodward very well?"

"We share the same receptionist."

"When Judge Leonard said that she was on television a decent amount, you seemed to disagree." She didn't say anything. "Does she give a lot of press conferences?"

"Press conferences, interviews -- she's a media whore." Brady's eyes widened at her own comment. "I mean, she--"

"It's all right," Elliot said. "It's important that you're honest with me."

She stopped dancing and searched for Woodward in the crowd. "I need a cigarette. Let's go outside."

As they headed for the exit, he spotted Olivia chatting with two attentive men by the bar. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she responded with a wink. "So you're both partners in the same firm," she said. "What was it again?"

"Henderson, Allan, Wade, Graves, and Morton," the blue-eyed one answered. "I'm Wade."

"I'm Graves."

Olivia flashed them her most charming smile. "Great. So do you know Judge Woodward?"

"Absolutely."

"She's biased."

"Very much for the People."

"Never for the defense."

"No, never."

She broadened her grin and hoped it looked more sincere than it was. "Really?"

Meanwhile, Casey strolled through the ballroom, listening to bits and pieces of conversations. Most of them were heated but harmless, the type of discussions one would expect in a room full of attorneys. Occasionally, however, she found groups of people speaking in hushed tones, and she strained her ear to pick up the details.

"...if there's a camera in the room, you'll find her front and center..."

"...I can hardly get a word in edgewise..."

"...she may be the best person for the job, but let's face it -- she's a victim now..."

"...I bet she staged the rape."

The phrase made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Casey stopped walking and admired a painting on the wall, hoping to hear the rest of the conversation.

"Jesus, Harry." A woman's voice... Casey wasn't sure who it belonged to, but she wasn't about to turn around to find out. "You think she'd do that?"

"What a way to swing the election in her favor." Judge Harry Hannibal. Of course. He was critical of everyone, the eternal pessimist. She wondered what kind of nickname Munch would give him. Perhaps Judge Whiney.

Casey took a sip of her water and kept walking, careful not to look at the group she had just eavesdropped on. Technically, there was nothing illegal about listening to them. The assurance didn't keep her heart from pounding out of her chest; she still felt like a spy.

"Counselor, would you like to dance?"

She looked up at Judge Leonard. "Oh, I'm not really much of a dancer."

"That's all right, I have two left feet." He held out his hand, and she hesitated before taking it. "We're doing pretty good so far. Now we just have to make it to the dance floor."

Judge Leonard slid an arm around her waist, maintaining a professional distance between them as they danced. She spotted Munch across the room, and his expression was intense but unreadable.

"I haven't seen you at the batting cages recently, Ms. Novak," Leonard said. "Don't tell me you've given it up."

"On the contrary. I've been using my lunch hour more often. Helps me think."

He grinned. "Good idea."

"I did see you last Saturday though. You came in as I was leaving."

"Have a good round?"

"I think so."

"Maybe I can pitch for you again sometime," he offered.

"You ought to join the summer softball league. The police have a new pitcher, and we could use someone with your strength on the team."

"Oh, I think I'm getting too old for that, but I appreciate the offer."

The song ended, and she stepped back. "I don't think you have two left feet, Your Honor. You did quite well."

"You're not so bad yourself, Counselor." Judge Leonard gave her a small bow which she imitated with a smile.

"Attention, everyone." Marianne Woodward had taken center stage, and the dance floor cleared. "I just wanted to thank you all for coming and showing your support. While I'm sorry that Justice Robbins will be leaving the Supreme Court, I am glad that I will get a chance to serve on the bench. I am confident that I will be selected by the public to serve as his successor."

Olivia slid next to Casey and whispered, "Hey."

"Hey. Learn anything new?"

"Yeah. No one here likes Judge Woodward."

"Judge Harry Hannibal -- the one with the really bad toupee over there? He thinks she may have staged her own rape. Not sure I'd put much stock into that, though. He doesn't like anybody."

There was a round of polite laughter as Judge Woodward told a joke. Olivia waited until the judge continued before saying, "I spoke to two attorneys from Henderson, Allan, and they both think she's biased."

"Most defense attorneys do. She's very strict with sentencing. I suppose some would say unfair. Not that it matters; most of them get out on parole anyway. Gotta love our legal system sometimes." The speech ended, and everyone applauded, Casey and Olivia included. Several people surrounded Judge Woodward, probably with more false words of support.

Olivia sighed and shook her head. "Marianne Woodward is one of the toughest sexual assault judges in the United States. They should be glad she's keeping rapists off the streets. Instead, there's a lot of backstabbing, a lot of mistrust."

"Ladies." Elliot stood behind them, arms folded behind his back. "Any suspects?"

"Yeah," his partner said, "all of them. When Munch gets done, we should head back to the precinct and compile a list."

His eyes narrowed at a woman stumbling toward Judge Woodward. "Is that Carly?"

Olivia followed his gaze. "Yeah. She looks drunk."

Munch noticed the approach as well and started for the center of the room. Exchanging concerned looks, Elliot and Olivia split up and also walked forward. Judge Woodward saw her sister last, turning toward her with a smile on her face.

"Great speech, sis. So how does it feel?" Carly slammed her empty glass on the closest table. "Golden child's not so golden now, is she?"

"Carly, what--"

"Inquiring minds want to know. How does it feel to be raped? To have some man force himself on you, push into you when you aren't ready, when you're crying out for him to stop. The shame? The pain? To not even know the identity of the man thrusting into you. How did that feel?"

The judge's face fell, and the people around her wisely stepped back. "Carly, please."

"And the rape kit -- what a horrible thing, like reliving it all over again. Poking and prodding, embarrassing photographs, cotton swabs." Tears streamed down Carly's face, and her fists were clenched at her sides. "And then to have your _colleagues_ talk about it behind your back because they don't have the guts to face you. How you were too weak to fight him off, how if you'd just screamed then it wouldn't have happened. How the police--" She noticed the three detectives moving in on her position and laughed weakly. "How the police don't believe your story, how your own _friends_ don't believe your story. To wake up _every day_ for the rest of your _life_ knowing what the son of a bitch did to you."

Olivia reached her first, taking her by the shoulders. "Carly, come on, let's go outside."

She brushed her off and advanced once more. "And just wait until you go to court. To have a judge and twelve strangers listen to your story. Listen to you describe the violation of your body, every single second of it, from beginning to end. Over and over again until every detail is firmly planted in their minds. Trust me, the humiliation is almost unbearable. And then the public, with their perverse interest in your trauma, their thirst for the sick details of what he did to you. To have your lawyer parade you around like some freak show. Here's your victim! Look at her!"

"Ms. Summers, please." Olivia tried to rein her in once more, but Carly fought back harder, shoving her to the side.

"How does it feel, knowing that everyone in this room knows about what happened to you? Do you _enjoy_ the attention? The whispers behind your back? Is that what you wanted this time?"

"Carly--" Judge Woodward took a breath, tried to calm herself. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why? _Why_?" Her eyes flashed with fury, and she brought her fists up. A collective gasp arose from the onlookers as they waited for the first punch. Elliot grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her back. She tugged against her restraints, but he was stronger. Finally she looked at her sister and screamed, "_Because you did the same thing to me!_" Then her body became limp, and she wept softly.

* * *

Casey sat near the entrance to the ballroom, watching the guests leave. She had never seen a political function clear out as quickly as this one. She sighed as the two sisters embraced. Then Elliot said something to each of them, and he and Olivia left with Carly. "Where are they taking her?" she asked Munch, who stood beside her like a bodyguard.

"To her AA sponsor's house." He gazed at the judge; she had lowered herself into a vacant chair, head in her hands. He looked back at Casey. Her expression was blank, eyes fixed on an invisible point on the wall. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Giving directions wasn't necessary, so the ride was spent in uncomfortable silence. He could think of nothing to say, and she seemed more than content to stare out the window and watch the city drift by. When they arrived at her building, he offered to walk her up, and she agreed with a nod.

"I'm sorry that the night turned out like it did," he said as she unlocked the door to her apartment.

"It's not your fault." She gave him a small smile. "Thank you for inviting me though. I hope I was of some help."

"Help?"

"Introducing you to New York's most honorable and most self-centered representatives." He still look confused. "You know, Judge Big Head. Judge Santa Claus."

"I ... didn't invite you because you're an attorney, Casey."

"You didn't?" She frowned slightly. "Then why--" His eyes remained focused on the floor, lips pressed together in a tight line. "Ohh."

Although she liked all of the SVU detectives, there was something about Munch that attracted her attention more than the others. He was funny and smart and probably as awkward as she was when it came to social situations. His unspoken admission wasn't a complete surprise, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't share some of the same feelings. They had engaged in some mild flirting in the past, and she'd always wondered what would happen if they acted on it. Still she hadn't expected him to say anything so soon, if at all. From what she knew of him, he was very private with his feelings. This was likely a big step for him.

She smiled, ready to take a big step of her own. "Well, you certainly know how to surprise a woman." He lifted his head to question her, and she kissed his cheek. He jerked back, eyes wide. Casey chuckled and once his heart started beating again, he laughed himself.

"So do you," he replied.

"Know how to surprise a woman?" She gave him a suspicious glance. "You're really a woman?"

"No."

"Good." She busied herself with unlocking the door because now it was her turn to be too nervous to look him in the face. "Because I don't think I'd be interested in dating a woman."

It didn't sound the way she had intended, but he got the message. He took a step toward her, close enough to whisper, but he didn't speak. She turned her head toward him and saw the answer to her question in his eyes. "John..."

A small click, and their bodies were bathed in light. "Casey, is that you?"

Gasping, she stepped back, severing the connection between them. "Mrs. Sherman. What are you doing up? It's almost midnight."

"Well, there's something wrong with my sink."

"With your sink?" She was surprised she sounded so calm since her stomach had flipped over and launched itself toward her feet. "Did you call maintenance?"

"Yes, but it'll be tomorrow before they can fix it. Can you help me, honey?"

"Of course." Carefully, she met Munch's gaze. His eyes were unreadable, and her stomach dropped a little more. "Good night, John."

She walked across the hall into Mrs. Sherman's apartment. "Thank you, dear. Oh, you look so pretty, did--"

The door closed behind her. Munch sighed.

* * *

Olivia squinted at her watch and groaned. "It's almost two o'clock. I am so sorry, Elliot."

He put his hands on the steering wheel, glancing out the window at her apartment building. "All in a day's work."

Stifling a yawn, she opened her car door. "You'd better get home."

"Yeah." She was halfway out of the car when she heard him ask, "You mind if I stay here?"

She paused. "Of course not."

He followed her up the stairs to her apartment and waited while she unlocked the door. Once inside, she disappeared into her bedroom and returned with his NYPD t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. Work out clothes, he recalled, from the days when they used to jog together. He changed quickly, hanging his tuxedo in her closet, and returned to the living room. She emerged from the bathroom at the same time, wearing a tank top and shorts.

"You know what we need?" she asked. "Rocky road." She went to the kitchen for a moment and returned with a large tub of ice cream and two spoons. He sat on the couch and groaned, pulling the bucket onto his lap. Olivia sat sideways, feet shoved between the cushions. "So what's up?" she asked, not expecting or receiving an answer. "Just felt like having a slumber party?"

He swallowed and stabbed the ice cream with his spoon. He looked worn, and she doubted it had anything to do with the incident at Judge Woodward's party or the case in general. "Sunday morning was trash day. Everyone was asleep but me. I went around to each of the rooms and collected the trash."

It sounded so simple, yet she knew it was anything but. Filling her spoon again, she took a bite and waited.

"When I got to the bathroom, I found a home pregnancy kit in the trash can. Positive." He shook his head, as if he was still in disbelief. "Lizzie's too young, and Kathleen, I guess it's possible but--" He sighed. "Maureen lives on campus. That leaves Kathy."

When he covered his face with his hands, she put the ice cream bucket on the coffee table and wrapped her fingers around his wrists. "Maybe she's going to have another baby, maybe--"

"No." His voice was hard when he spoke. "It's ... been a while."

She pressed her lips together. "Well, did you ask her about it?" His head shook from side to side. "Maybe it was somebody else's test."

"Some random person off the street stops in my bathroom and takes a pregnancy test?"

"No. I meant one of Kathleen's friends or maybe one of Maureen's. Maybe a friend of Kathy's."

"I-I don't know."

"El, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She leaned forward and slid her arms around his shoulders. After a moment, he relaxed into her embrace. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"You're probably right. Probably just a friend who didn't know where else to go." He pulled back and managed a smile. "Thanks, Liv."

She returned the grin. "What do you say to a cheesy made-for-TV movie and some more ice cream?"

"Only if I get the remote."

* * *

Her cell phone rang sometime after five. Olivia jerked awake, accidentally kicking Elliot in the shin. He opened his eyes and adjusted to the flickering television screen. "What?"

"Phone." She got up from the couch and limped toward the kitchen. Her cell sat on the counter, and she grabbed it. "Benson."

Elliot watched her expression falter, heard the soft curse. "What's wrong?"

She disconnected the call with a sigh. "That was Cragen. Marianne Woodward is dead."

_End of part four_


	5. Chapter 5 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

A/N: This chapter is reposted due to a comment made by a reviewer.To avoid anyfurther confusion with anatomical positioning versus visual positioning, I've simply rewritten what Warner said so it makes more sense regardless :)

_The Price of Justice_ 5/14  
by perfectvelvet

Every one of Elliot's senses was assaulted the moment he stepped into Judge Woodward's apartment. He heard Olivia moan behind him, felt the swift rush of air as she brought her hand up to cover her mouth and nose. Bulbs flashed and cameras whirred as the crime scene photographers took pictures of the apartment. The stench of death was everywhere, so strong he could taste it: bitter, metallic, like old pennies.

Elena stood off to the side, face streaked with tears and clothing covered with blood. A patrol officer was asking her questions, but her attention kept straying to the chaos around her. She saw Elliot, and her eyes narrowed.

"We just released the apartment to the resident from the rape investigation." Andy Baker approached them, shoulders hunched. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past few days. "And here we are again."

Elliot put his hands on his hips and glanced around. "What happened?"

He looked at his notes from the patrol officer. "Housekeeper called it in. Said she came home around five from a friend's house and saw the light on in the kitchen. Came around the corner where she found the victim face down. She claims she turned her over and attempted CPR without success. The footprints in the blood, she says are hers."

He looked at Elena. Last time, she cleaned house before CSU had a chance to collect evidence. This time, she contaminated the crime scene. Another mistake, or something else? "Is the ME here?"

"She's just finishing up."

He turned to his right and slowly walked toward the kitchen. His breath caught in his throat as he noticed blood splattered on the refrigerator and pantry doors. Judge Woodward lay face up on the linoleum, eyes open and staring. Oblong bruises had turned her neck purple, and there was a moderate sized pool of blood beneath her body. Melinda Warner, the medical examiner, crouched beside the judge, scribbling notes on a small spiral pad.

"Hey," Olivia greeted.

Warner nodded in acknowledgement. "She was most likely stabbed to death. There are multiple wounds in her body. I've counted nine so far. Some defensive wounds on her hands, but I don't know if it'll be anything you can use in your investigation."

Elliot saw the bloody carving knife beside the body and searched the counter for a wooden block. He found it by the toaster, with one empty slot. There was a plate of spaghetti overturned on the floor. A sauce-stained fork rested beside it, shadowed by the counters. "Spaghetti between midnight and five? Guess it's not just cops who eat at all hours of the day."

Baker stood beside him. "The blood spatter pattern looks low. See the drops on the counter doors and the refrigerator? Look at the direction." He gestured to a few of the teardrops. "I think she was kneeling."

"Begging for her life?" Olivia wondered.

Elliot pointed to another section of spatter, not at all drop-shaped, that went from the cabinets to the countertop to the ceiling. "Cast off from the knife?"

"Probably," Baker said. "We'll get a spatter expert in here to run the lasers."

"She's got some bruises on her neck, look exactly like a hand print," Warner pointed out. "Location of the fingers and thumb suggests the perp was left handed."

Elliot imitated the pattern by loosely grabbing Olivia's neck. "Chokes her hard enough that she loses consciousness maybe?"

"That might put her in a kneeling position." She hunched down next to Warner and looked over the body. Her eyes drifted toward the plate of spaghetti. "Only one dish, so she was eating alone. Was the perp waiting for her? Snuck up behind her while she was facing the counter?"

"And what, tapped her on the shoulder?" Elliot shook his head. "At some point, they were facing each other."

"Familiarity? You think she knew him?"

"Or her," he suggested, casting another glance at Elena. "Have your people finished taking pictures over here?"

Baker nodded. "Got those first thing so the ME could move in. You're clear."

He put on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the spaghetti plate. A stray noodle slid onto the floor. "Print this. Either one of them could have knocked it off the counter." He reached for the fork but froze in place before he touched the handle. "That's not marinara sauce on the tines."

"What?" Olivia aimed her pocket flashlight at the utensil. The red on the tines was thin and darker than the sauce. "Blood."

"Perp's or victim's?"

Warner raised an eyebrow. "I didn't see any wounds like that on her body."

Elliot picked up the fork and held it in the light, rotating it slightly to check all angles. "Superficial, so he probably didn't go to the emergency room. Maybe his DNA will be in our system."

"Detectives!" They stepped out of the kitchen and looked past the living room at an investigator in the hallway. "I have something you should see."

Elliot led the way with Olivia close behind, and they joined the man in Elena's bedroom. The housekeeper's quarters didn't look any different than the last time they were there, except for a basket of unfolded laundry on the bed. "What is it?" he asked.

"I photographed this room after the first attack, and _that_," he said, pointing to a few small spots on the carpet, "wasn't there before."

They knelt down by the dresser, and once again Olivia shined her flashlight at the stains. "Betcha it's not marinara sauce," she muttered.

"More blood. Can you get someone to swab this?" he asked the investigator, who nodded and disappeared. "You think it's a match to Judge Woodward?"

"Could be a match to Elena, courtesy of a fork in the arm."

Elliot sighed. "What do you think, Liv? Same perp for both crimes?"

"It's possible. Maybe he intended to kill her after he raped her, but Elena's arrival stopped him."

"And Elena saves the day again."

"You don't trust her?"

"Maybe she had nothing to do with the judge's rape or murder, but she's guilty of something."

She raised an eyebrow. "We all are."

* * *

"_Dobroe utro_." 

Elena looked up as Munch entered the interrogation room. She tilted her head and studied him with well-placed suspicion. "_Dobroe utro_."

"I'm Detective Munch." Fin entered the room, and he said, "This is my partner, Detective Tutuola. We just want to ask you a few questions."

"I've been answering questions all morning. I'm tired."

"I know, and I'm sorry," he said, sitting in the chair across from her, while Fin leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. Munch placed the manila folder from Carly on the table but kept it closed. "But we need to do it while the events are still fresh in your mind."

She snorted softly. "This is something I won't soon forget."

"Why don't you tell me what happened?"

"It was just like the last time, only I found Ms. Woodward in the kitchen and she wasn't breathing. I tried CPR, but she wouldn't wake up, so I called the police."

"And you didn't see anyone or anything unusual?"

"No."

Munch had read Elliot's report about her sudden outburst and anticipated a similar response to his next question. "The investigators found blood on your bedroom floor. Any idea how it got there?"

"I had a bloody nose," Elena said simply.

"Why didn't you clean it up?"

"I didn't have any carpet cleaner."

A housekeeper with no carpet cleaner? He sighed. "You're not under arrest, but it would help the investigation if we could get a DNA sample from you."

"Am I a suspect? I would _never_ hurt Ms. Woodward."

He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. Then he opened the file to the photograph of herself with Chester Woodward in the hotel room bed. "I think this would have hurt her."

Elena glanced at the picture with disinterest. "It meant nothing."

Fin finally spoke. "What about Nikolai? He mean nothing, too?"

Her head whipped up, dark eyes wide with shock. "How do you know about Nikolai?"

"We have a copy of his birth certificate."

"But--" A tear rolled down her cheek. "No one knows about Nikolai."

"Correction. No one _knew_ about Nikolai." Fin put his hands on the table and leaned closer to her. "But then Judge Woodward found out, right?"

"No."

"She threatened to throw you out on the street, so you killed her."

"No!" She covered her face with her hands. "No. Please stop."

"Sleeping with your boss's husband then having his baby." Fin shook his head. "That's sick."

"You'll have to forgive my partner," Munch said. "He doesn't think you're telling us the truth."

"I am! I am, I _swear_." Elena gave him an irresistible puppy dog expression. "I don't know who killed Ms. Woodward. No one was there when I got there."

"What about when she was raped?" Fin asked.

"I didn't see anyone then either."

"Well, he was in the apartment when you got there. So how'd you miss him?"

She looked to Munch for an explanation, but he shrugged. "I don't understand."

"And you didn't lock the door," Fin continued. "You're right, you didn't kill Judge Woodward. But you hired the man who did."

"What?"

"You paid him a good chunk of change to rape your boss, but that wasn't good enough, so you had her killed."

This time, she squeezed her hands against her ears. "Stop, please. I didn't pay anyone."

"Sure you did. Your taxes and your bank account tell us that."

Elena screamed a curse at him in Russian.

Munch raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

"That money is for my son," she said at last.

"How much do you give him?"

"Twenty two thousand dollars each year." Munch and Fin exchanged glances, and she added quickly, "It's a lot of money in Russia, but I want him to have everything. My parents tell me he's doing well. They bought a new house, some clothes. He'll go to the best schools--"

"Elena..." Munch rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, but we're going to have to keep you in custody for the time being."

"Why? I told you where the money was going. I didn't hurt Ms. Woodward."

"You've been lying on your tax returns for the past four years. Anything you give as a gift over eleven thousand dollars each year is taxable. You just told us you've been giving your son more than that, and you haven't been paying taxes on the difference."

She was quiet for a long time, and her body began to quake. "What's going to happen to me?"

"That's for the IRS to decide." Munch stood up and turned for the door. He stopped when he heard a low moan escape from Elena's lips.

"What about Nikolai?"

He looked away. "I'm sorry."

Cragen, Elliot, and Olivia watched the display from the captain's office on the other side of the two-way mirror. When Elena was alone, she rested her head in her arms and cried quietly. Munch and Fin appeared in the office a few moments later.

"You did the right thing," Cragen said.

Munch shook his head. "Doesn't feel like it. She wasn't guilty of anything."

"Except tax fraud," Elliot said. "She would've been caught sooner or later, John; don't beat yourself up over it."

He slouched against the door frame. Fin asked, "Did you guys get any hits at the party last night?"

"No one in particular." Olivia turned away from the window. "But everyone had a motive. I don't think I heard anyone say a nice word about the judge the whole time we were there."

"So much for a supportive crowd," Fin muttered.

Elliot nodded. "I talked to Judge Brady for twenty minutes, and she hated Marianne Woodward. She called her everything from a media whore to a self-righteous bitch."

"That doesn't sound like the Marianne Woodward we knew," Cragen said.

"But it does sounds like the Marianne Woodward her sister described." Olivia shrugged. "Maybe we should interview her again, assuming she's sobered up."

Cragen gazed through the window at the sobbing housekeeper. "All right, we're going to treat this as two crimes for now, a rape and a homicide. Munch, Fin, you've got the homicide. Check with the lab; see if they've found anything that could get us a suspect. Benson, Stabler, you've got the rape, but first you need to go get the sister. Tell her about the judge's death. Maybe she'll remember something now."

* * *

Carly Summers sat at her sponsor's kitchen table and stared blankly at the fruit-print wallpaper, eyes blurred by unshead tears. "When did it happen?" 

Elliot paused. "Sometime before five a.m."

"Oh." She sniffed. "When can I collect the body?"

"After the medical examiner has completed the autopsy."

"Oh," she said again.

Olivia glanced at her partner and shook her head. He knew exactly what she meant: Carly was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Was it the same man? The man who raped her, did he k--?" The word stuck in her throat, so she tried again. No sound came out. Her face crumpled, and the first few tears fell from her eyes. "Oh, my God. Who would _do_ this?"

"We were hoping you could help us with that," Elliot said.

She looked up at him. "I've told you everything I know." Her face clouded over, and the trademark scowl returned. "I didn't kill her."

"Nobody said you did, but the two of you weren't close."

"I was at the party, too, Detectives. I heard the comments they made about my sister. Perhaps you should widen your suspect pool."

Olivia knelt beside her. "Ms. Summers, can you think of anything your sister may have said that could be of some help? Was she being threatened? Did she have any problems with anyone?"

"I don't..." She rubbed her temples. "I don't know."

"Even if it didn't seem important then, anything at all."

"Uh, at dinner last Sunday, she said she didn't just want to win her party's nomination for Supreme Court Justice, she wanted to win by a landslide. Said if you didn't win big, it wasn't worth winning."

Elliot looked at her. "What did she mean by that?"

"Marianne was always very competitive. It's half of what made her a good attorney."

"What was the other half?"

"Her ruthlessness. She was willing to do anything to get ahead." Carly gave a half smile. "I admired that about her, you know. She wasn't afraid of anything. This rape? She never let it get to her, which is more than I can say for myself."

Olivia glanced at her partner. "Ms. Summers, does the line 'I love it when a plan comes together' mean anything to you?"

"It's from _The A-Team_." She chuckled softly, shook her head. "Marianne always did like that show."

* * *

Cragen had called Casey with news of Judge Woodward's death hours before the public found out. She listened to the radio reports as she rode the subway to the precinct. The city was shocked. Judges and attorneys were being interviewed in every borough. Was it an isolated incident? Was someone out to destroy the judicial system? Were the rape and the murder connected somehow? Did the police have any leads? 

Casey's grip tightened on the photograph of the Judicial Advocates Against Sexual Assault members. She had meant to get it to the detectives sooner, but it had been misplaced, tucked in a box in her office. She'd probably never see it again after today; it would most likely become evidence in the Woodward rape/murder.

She gazed at the image once more. A sea of black robes with the more colorfully dressed on the sides. Marianne Woodward was all smiles, standing front and center. She had an amazing ability to steal the camera. Her physical attractiveness and commanding presence were every photographer's dream -- and everyone else's nightmare.

_Not anymore,_ Casey thought as the train pulled into the station.

It was a short distance from the subway to the precinct, and it was surprisingly quiet for a Saturday in that part of Manhattan. She rode the elevator to the floor where the Special Victims Unit was located and entered the squad room.

"You want to run that by me again?" Cragen was saying. "I don't think I heard you correctly the first time."

Elliot sighed. "It's just a theory. We don't have any better ideas." He noticed the attorney walking toward him and nodded. "Hey, Casey. I guess everyone's working overtime today."

"I'm salaried," she said, handing her picture to Cragen. "Here's the JAASA photo you wanted."

"Thank you." He looked at it for a moment. "How many of these people were at the party last night?"

She peered over his shoulder and pointed to the various individuals. "Well, Judge Woodward, of course. Judge Leonard -- he's the one behind her and to the right. Judge Brady, in the third row. Uh ... Judge Lang, Martinez, Fish. I think I saw Judge Avery at the bar, but I'm not sure. Oh, and Judge Petrovsky."

"That's a good number."

"She invited everyone for JAASA, but the party was made up of her closest friends and fellow party members."

"And a few friendly reporters," Elliot added. "I'll be right back; I'm going to grab a copy of the paper, see if there were any write-ups."

Casey stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "So do you have any leads?"

"Olivia, why don't you tell her your new theory?" Cragen asked.

"It's not a new theory, but it has been given new life. Elliot and I talked to Carly Summers, the judge's sister. It seems that Judge Woodward had always been very ruthless, willing to do anything to win. And when we told her the rapist's catch phrase--"

"'I love it when a plan comes together,'" Casey recited. "From _The A-Team_."

Olivia nodded. "That was one of Judge Woodward's favorite television programs."

The attorney quirked an eyebrow. "So you think that Judge Woodward faked her rape."

"I don't know. It's possible."

"Maybe so, but she didn't fake her death." A chuckle from Fin caught her attention. "What?"

"That's exactly what Munch said, word for word."

She looked at Munch who spread out his hands like a magician finishing a trick. She gave him a lopsided grin then turned back to Olivia. "How does your theory explain the murder?"

"It doesn't. I don't think she did it either, Casey, but we don't have anything else to go on."

"Did the security cameras show anything?" Casey asked.

Elliot shook his head. "After the rape, management decided to do a complete overhaul of their security system: more cameras, panic buttons, the whole works. At the time of the murder, everything was offline."

"Sounds like the killer may have known that," Casey muttered to herself.

"Okay, here's an idea," Fin said. "Maybe somebody found out she lied about the rape and killed her."

"Why?" Olivia asked.

"Why do killers kill?" Munch stood and headed for the coffee pot. "I still say it was the same guy who did both crimes."

Casey nodded. "I agree."

"They're all nice theories, but we still have a problem." Everyone turned to Cragen. "We don't have a suspect."

* * *

"Just got this fax." Fin brought the papers over to the other detectives. "It's Officer Davies' rape kit results." 

"What does it say?" Elliot asked.

"Pretty much what Doctor Shaw told us. Bruises on her thighs, vaginal tears. Evidence of spermicide but no fluids present."

Munch sighed. "Another bust."

"I called the lab; they said the earliest they could get us any results about the blood on the fork would be middle of the next week." Elliot leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "Crime scene techs are turning the apartment inside out, hoping to find more evidence."

Olivia pursed her lips together. "There's definitely something we're missing, but it might not be hard evidence."

"Something in the judge's past?" Fin suggested. "I'm going to check the Internet."

"I'll talk to Casey on Monday," Munch said, "see if she can get me unfettered access to her law library."

"Uh, John?" Elliot didn't bother trying to mask his grin. "You do know that most law libraries are open to the public, right?"

He began to arrange the pens on his desk into triangles. "Really?"

Elliot shot his partner a look, and she covered her smile with a hand. He turned back to Munch. "Casey looked nice last night."

"No comment."

"You don't think she looked nice?"

"I am merely exercising my Fifth Amendment rights."

They both snickered at his reply. Fin lifted his head. "Okay, I think I missed something."

"Oh, you'll figure it out soon enough," Olivia said. "We'll be teasing him for months to come."

"What am I, the squad effigy?"

"Oh, come on, John." Elliot slid his coat on. "You know better than to take us seriously."

"Yeah, right..."

"Have a good night, everyone."

"You're leaving me?" Olivia asked. "What could possibly be more fun than working through dinner on a Saturday night?"

"I have a date with my wife." He met her gaze. "Kids are gone. We finally get a chance to talk."

She remembered their earlier conversation over ice cream and nodded. "See you Monday, then."

"Make it Tuesday. I'm in court all Monday." He waved as he headed out of the precinct, shouting a goodbye to Munch and Fin.

Olivia watched him go then turned to the other two men with a grin. "Okay, who wants pizza?"

_End of part five_


	6. Chapter 6 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 6/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Tuesday, October 26_

"We could just schedule a hearing for a trial date," Casey suggested as she followed Steve Adams into the courthouse. "Follow standard procedure."

"My client is entitled to a speedy trial per the Constitution, and I intend to give him one."

She tried not to roll her eyes. She'd heard from other district attorneys that Adams was gung ho both in and out of the courtroom. A transplant from upstate, this was their first tête-à-tête. She was already hoping it would be their last. "But there are extenuating circumstances, given Judge Woodward's death. She was our judge, and it'll take the court a while to sort things out. I'm sure Judge Leonard hasn't even begun to adjust his calendar."

"What do you want to do, file a Motion for Substitution of Judge? 'The People request that this case be transferred to a judge other than the Honorable Marianne Woodward as the Honorable Marianne Woodward has died.' That'd be a waste of time." He continued down the hall, and Casey almost had to run to keep up with him.

"Don't you have any respect for the dead?"

He shrugged and punched the button for the elevator. "I don't have any respect for the living; why discriminate?" The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

"So you'd rather just knock on his door? 'Your Honor, in the interest of speedy trials'--"

"Yes, I would. There's already been a continuance at the People's request, and now with Judge Woodward's untimely passing ... I'd like to see justice served." The elevator doors slid open, and he headed for the reception desk. Adams flashed the woman an award-winning grin, and Casey crossed her arms. So what if he looked a little like Clark Gable; he was a jerk. "Good afternoon," he greeted, "Steve Adams and Casey Novak to see Judge Leonard please."

The grin seemed to work, and Michelle, as her nameplate read, picked up the phone to call the judge. When she hung up, she gave Adams a wink. "Go on in."

"Thank you." Adams led the way to the judge's chambers and knocked on the door.

"Come in," came a faint, distracted voice, and he turned the handle. Judge Martin Leonard was seated at his desk, reading over a pleading. Casey followed Adams into the room, and they waited for the judge to acknowledge their arrival. The nickname that Munch had given him Friday night crept into her mind: Judge Big Head. She suppressed a chuckle.

Finally, he looked up from the document and gave a pleasant albeit fake smile. "Counselors, how may I help you?"

Adams beamed. "_People versus McElroy_, Your Honor. This case was recently transferred to you following Judge Woodward's death. Ms. Novak and I have met delay after delay in trying this case. We've come to ask you if there was any way you could expedite same."

Casey looked at him in bemusement, and Judge Leonard's expression wasn't much different. "I'm sorry that the tragic murder of one of New York's finest judges is delaying you further. Please accept my apologies."

Adams's face fell, and Casey felt a slight twinge of satisfaction. "That didn't come out right. I--"

"I know what you meant. Let me see what I can do." He slid on a pair of reading glasses and opened his day planner. "Normally, my clerk keeps my calendar, so this will take a few moments."

Casey remained standing as the judge pondered over the scheduling. He would mumble to himself on occasion, drawing lines and arrows that looked like a football coach's diagram.

He really did have a disproportionately large head. His tiny reading glasses seemed to disappear on his face. Sure, his body was long and lean, but his head was the size of a big pumpkin and just as round. _Pumpkinhead_, she thought, clearing her throat to disguise the laugh that threatened to escape.

"How does mid-November sound? The fifteenth?"

Adams nodded. "We'll take it." He stood and extended his hand to the judge. "Thank you, Your Honor."

"My pleasure. I love it when a plan comes together."

Casey's heart gave one final thump before skipping two beats. _I love it when a plan comes together._ No, no, she didn't hear him correctly. Her face paled, and when he turned to her, she drew in a breath. "Wh--" She was conscious of her trembling hands, but she was powerless to stop them. Powerless, like Marianne Woodward.

"Ms. Novak?" _I love it when..._

"Casey, are you okay?"

She whipped her head toward Adams. He looked confused, even concerned. Of course he did; the phrase had never been reported to the public. The only people who knew of it were the police, herself ... and the man who raped Marianne Woodward.

Judge Leonard gave a deep chuckle, and she looked at him again, her stomach churning. His face twisted into a sick smile, and she took a few steps backward. "Be careful, Ms. Novak."

She bumped into a short bookcase, the corner piercing her between the shoulder blades. It felt like a knife had been thrust into her back. _He knows,_ she thought. _He knows that I know._

"Excuse me," she said, spinning toward the door and fumbling with the handle. She heard Adams call after her, then the receptionist, but she ignored them both as she bolted from the office.

Martin Leonard raped Marianne Woodward.

She turned the corner and stumbled, twisting her ankle. _I love it when a plan comes together._ The words echoed in her head, and she pushed the palms of her hands against her ears in an effort to silence them.

A criminal circuit judge raped one of his colleagues. Oh, God. She had to tell the police. He raped her -- and possibly murdered her, too. Casey's stomach lurched, and she ran for the nearest restroom.

_I love it when..._

She burst through the door, dropped to her knees in the first stall, and vomited.

* * *

Casey's mind barely registered that a mug of coffee had been placed in front of her. She rested her forehead in the palm of her hand, staring into oblivion, the _A-Team_ phrase running through her head, quickly at first then slowly, as if someone was adjusting the speed of a recording.

Cragen sat at his desk and stared at her. His four detectives were present as well, equally interested in her story. She had told it once, but she was talking so fast that they had only caught the gist of it: Casey knew who had raped and possibly murdered Judge Woodward.

"You all right?"

She glanced up at Cragen and nodded. "Yeah."

"Can you go through it again? Every detail, from the beginning."

A hand closed around her upper arm, and she jumped in her chair. Her heart had been pounding hard since the meeting with the judge. She grasped the hand and felt the fingers: long, a little rough. Munch. She looked up at him and gave him a weak smile.

"You went to the courthouse with Steve Adams?" he prompted.

"Yeah, _People versus McElroy_. You know, the guy with the hidden cameras in the high school locker room. We had one continuance to locate a witness, and Steve wasn't happy about having another one with Judge Woodward's death." She looked away, forcing the bile back down her throat. _Breathe, Casey._ "He wanted to speak to Judge Leonard personally, to see if he could do anything to expedite trial. So we went to his chambers, and he checked his calendar."

"Did you have any indication that Leonard had done it up to that point?" Cragen asked.

"No." She smiled to herself. "I was focused on his big head." Munch squeezed her arm but said nothing. "Then he gave us the date, we agreed, and ... that's when he said it."

Fin's voice sounded behind her. "Exactly like that?"

"Word for word." Casey sighed. "But it's circumstantial. All things considered, 'I love it when a plan comes together' is not an uncommon phrase. It ran rampant during the eighties when _The A-Team_ was popular, right along with 'Shut up, fool' and 'He's on the jazz'. He could've been using it since the series aired. It might even be in a few court transcripts, depending on his frequency of use. It proves nothing."

Olivia straightened suddenly, her eyes bright. "Wait a second. The lab said they found black fibers in the bedding from Judge Woodward's apartment, and they matched those fibers to the ones used for a judge's robe. Now we assumed that those fibers came from Marianne's robe. But..." She reached for the file and withdrew the photograph from the stairwell's security camera. "What if--"

"Son of a bitch." Elliot took the picture from her and stared at it before turning it around to show the others. "He wore his own robe."

Cragen looked between Elliot and Olivia. "See what you can find out about Judge Leonard. Quietly. We don't have a warrant, and no judge is going to issue one." They nodded and filed out of the office, giving Casey comforting smiles on their way out. "Casey, one last question. Is Leonard left-handed or right-handed?"

"Left-handed."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely; we pitch for each other at the field." She frowned. "Why?"

Munch held the gaze with his captain before answering. "Judge Woodward was strangled by someone using his left hand. It doesn't mean anything, necessarily..." She shaded her eyes with a hand, and his voice trailed off.

Cragen sighed quietly. "Munch, take her home."

She lifted her head. "No, I need to go back to my office."

"You're sure?"

"I'm fine." She started to stand, but her legs wobbled and she sat back down. "A little dizzy, but fine."

"I'll take her back to work," Munch offered. He helped her up and opened the door for her.

"Casey." Cragen rose as well. "If you need anything or feel unsafe, give any of us a call."

"Thank you, Captain."

* * *

Elliot's curse was loud enough to be heard by the entire squadroom, but only his partner looked up. "What's wrong?"

"How could we miss this?"

"What?"

He slid the paper to her desk. "Martin Leonard lives in Marianne Woodward's building. Five floors down."

"There's opportunity."

"What did he tell Patrol about his whereabouts the night of the rape?" He rummaged around on his desk for the report. "Here we go. He was home alone from six-thirty on. Spoke to Judge Terhune later in the evening, around eight-thirty. Went to bed at ten. How convenient."

She gazed at the resident names and apartment numbers. "I recognize quite a few people from this list. Lena Petrovsky, seventh floor. Your friend Gloria Brady lives on the eleventh floor."

"No woman did this." He held up a hand before Olivia could protest. "Neither of those women did this. Gloria Brady is in her sixties and a chain smoker, and Lena Petrovsky is roughly the same size as Marianne Woodward."

"How about Daniel Groth?"

Elliot frowned then shook his head. "Who?"

"He was a suspect in a rape back in April. He was an assistant DA in Brooklyn."

"Yeah." He shook his finger as he recalled the case. "Yeah, I remember. He met his victim at some charity function; he got her liquored up, escorted her back to her hotel room, and raped her."

"We did some investigation but before we could find anything concrete, she recanted her story."

"I always thought he paid her off." Elliot leaned forward. "He lives in the judge's building?"

"Two floors below. And..." She pulled a copy of Casey's JAASA photograph out of her file. "Far left, second to last row."

He looked at the picture, eyes drawn to the spot that Olivia had mentioned. There was the smiling face of Dan Groth.

* * *

"Steve Adams called three times."

Casey picked up the pink slips in her message box and smiled at Maggie. "I'm not surprised."

"Judge Leonard called, too."

"Oh." She squeezed her hand into a fist, hoping it would stop her fingers from shaking. Why would he call?

"You all right? You look pale."

"I always look pale."

"Well ... paler than usual."

Her grin widened. Out of all of the secretaries in the office, Maggie Delaney was her favorite. She'd been working for the district attorneys longer than Casey had been practicing law, and that kind of longevity was rare for a secretary, particularly for the firm.

Casey continued thumbing through the messages as she walked to her office. Steve _did_ call three times, once every hour. No reference, so she assumed it had to do with her abrupt departure. She crumpled each message individually and aimed for the miniature basketball hoop affixed to her trash can.

There were still two pink message slips remaining. The first was from Mary Clark, asking to meet her for lunch on Wednesday. "Sure," she muttered, marking it in her calendar. Then she called Mary's office.

"_Ms. Clark isn't in right now_," came the voice of the new receptionist, whom Casey had yet to meet. "_Could I take a message?_"

"Could you tell her Casey Novak will meet her for lunch tomorrow?"

"_Casey Novak ... lunch ... tomorrow. Got it._"

"Thanks." She hung up and looked at the remaining pink slip. The message from Judge Leonard. The regards line contained the words _People v. McElroy_ written in Maggie's fat, kindergarten-esque handwriting. The case she and Steve had discussed with him earlier, when she realized that...

Casey pressed her palms flat against the desk and took a few deep breaths. She'd faced rapists and murderers before and kept her cool. Why did this one have to bother her? She needed to spend an hour at the batting cages. _Where she and Leonard used to go together._

"Okay," she said as she dialed the judge's phone number. Michelle answered. "Is Judge Leonard in? This is Casey Novak, returning his call."

"_One moment_."

The 'one moment' seemed a lot longer, and she resisted the urge to hang up the phone. Munch tried to assure her on the way over here that she was safe, that Leonard had no idea that he was a suspect. "Act natural," he had told her. Easier said than done.

"_Ms. Novak?_"

She sat up straight. "Judge Leonard, I was told you called."

"_You left before I had a chance to talk to you._"

"Regarding what, Your Honor?"

"_I received notice from the Court that I would be presiding over two of your other cases. _Yates _and _Buehler_. I thought we might arrange a time to discuss their scheduling._"

Her brow creased in suspicion. "I will notify the defense attorneys in those cases and see when they're available ... sir."

"_Very well. Are you feeling better, Counselor? In chambers, you looked as if you'd seen a ghost._"

"Must've been something I ate. But yes, I feel better."

"_Good. It would be a shame to lose another member of the legal community._" He paused. "_Have a good evening, Counselor._"

The line disconnected, and she put the receiver back in place with a sigh.

* * *

_Groth Law Office  
Broadway and West 52nd Street  
Tuesday, October 26_

"Detectives!" Dan Groth had been walking out of his office when he spotted Elliot and Olivia. His greeting was a mixture of amusement and disdain, the kind of tone that only a lawyer could pull off. "How can I help you today? Looking to destroy my career for a second time?"

Elliot grinned. "Depends on if you're guilty or not."

"If you remember correctly, I wasn't guilty the last time."

"Oh, you were guilty. You just got off easy. How much did it cost you to buy her silence? A couple grand?"

Groth's brown eyes seemed to grow darker. "I'd love to stay and reminisce, but I'm late for a meeting with a client."

"That's right. You're a divorce lawyer now. How's that working out for you?"

"It's miserable, but since the DA's office fired me after Annie accused me of raping her, I don't have much choice in the matter."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised to hear you say that. You make good money now, more than the DA's office ever paid you. I mean, look at your apartment -- Upper West Side, great view of Central Park."

"This is about that judge who was raped, isn't it?" He sighed deeply. "Look, I already talked to the officers who stopped by last Friday. I spent that night at my girlfriend's house and got into work Monday morning around nine."

"What's your girlfriend's name?" she asked.

"You're serious." He chuckled. "All right, I'll play your game. Her name is Lyndsey Brooker; she lives in Jersey City. Look, Detectives, I didn't even know Judge Woodward had been raped until that patrol officer came asking for my alibi."

"Did you know she was murdered?" Elliot asked.

"I read about it in yesterday's paper. Front page news."

"So where were you Friday night?"

"My record was expunged," Groth said through gritted teeth. "I didn't rape Annie, and I certainly didn't rape Judge Woodward."

"But you knew her," Olivia said.

"Of course I knew her. The whole city knew her. While I worked at the DA's office, I was a member of JAASA -- the Judicial Advocates Against Sexual Assault. Marianne did a lot of good for the community. It's unfortunate that she fell victim to the same thing she fought against." He looked at each of them in turn. "Now, if you're finished harassing me, I'd like to get to my client."

They watched him climb into a taxi and speed away. Elliot glared at the disappearing vehicle. "I still like him for Annie's rape."

"That's how we missed him on our initial search," she said suddenly. "We weren't focused on names, just on criminal records. Maybe there are others. Other suspects who--"

"What about Judge Leonard?"

Olivia started to speak then closed her mouth. "Every suspect we've had so far has come up clean, and who knows? Maybe Carly or Elena or the paraplegic who lives downstairs really is guilty. The perp could have been hired. Besides -- a judge killing another judge?"

"Why not? Factory employees come into work with semi-automatic rifles and start taking out co-workers. Cops have killed other cops. Why can't judges kill other judges?"

Olivia shook her head, looking down the street with her hands in her pockets.

"Come on, Liv. I'll buy you dinner; we'll drive to Jersey City and talk to Lyndsey Brooker tomorrow."

That drew a laugh. "You're in a cheerful mood for someone whose case is going nowhere fast."

"Case, maybe. Marriage, no." He smiled. "Pregnancy test was taken by one of our neighbors who wanted to surprise her husband with the news."

"I told you it wasn't Kathy or the kids."

He linked his arm in hers. "That's why you're the sensible one."

* * *

Casey worked well into the evening, catching up on newsletters and solicitations from expert witnesses. Then she read through the latest Supreme Court decisions and reviewed a motion prepared by the defense in one of her cases. By the time she finished drafting a response, she was the only one left in the office.

An occasional boom of thunder interrupted her thoughts, which was nothing compared to the growling of her stomach. She had skipped lunch, and it was nearing eight-thirty. Chinese takeout sounded good. She flipped through her Rolodex in search of a number.

There was a squeak from the main door, and Casey lifted her head to see who was there. The hall light was still off, so whoever had entered was either walking around in the dark or loitering near the receptionist's desk. She strained to hear any signs of life, but there was nothing. Just silence.

"Hello?" She walked to her door and looked up and down the hallway. It was dark and empty. With the shake of her head -- _You're imagining things_, she told herself -- she returned to her desk. "Get a grip, Casey," she said aloud, the sound of her own voice working to quell her fears.

A screech echoed through the empty office, like a chair being dragged across a tile floor. Her head snapped up. She _definitely_ didn't imagine that one. Cautiously, she rose from her chair again and this time went into the hallway. She slid her fingertips across the wall as she crept toward the reception area. Maggie's desk lamp was on; had she forgotten something and returned to the office?

"Casey."

She jumped back with a gasp. Munch frowned at her. "Jesus, John, what are you doing here?"

"I tried your cell but didn't get an answer. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. How did you get in the building?"

"I switched into my Spiderman costume and scaled the wall." She stared at him, clearly unamused, and he sighed. "I showed my badge to the officer on duty downstairs and signed in."

She flipped the light switch and led him down the now-illuminated hallway to her office. "So did you need something?"

"Just checking to see that you were all right. You could barely walk straight when you left the station." He took a step toward her then stopped. "_Are_ you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Then why were you sneaking around in the dark?"

She began to gather files together to take home, ignoring his question. It must've been him making all the noise that she heard. He probably turned on Maggie's desk lamp, too. If there had been someone else there, he would've noticed. She glanced over at him; he was still staring. "John, I'm fine!"

"Obviously." He shoved his hands in his suit coat pockets. "See you tomorrow."

He turned toward the door, and she heaved a sigh. "John..." He stopped but didn't look at her. "I haven't eaten since breakfast. You wanna ... go somewhere? I promise I'll be better company once I've got food in my stomach."

Munch gazed at her over his shoulder. "I hear you know this great little Indian place."

One corner of her mouth turned upward. "You hear correctly."

* * *

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
Wednesday, October 27_

"Are you ready?"

With a nod to her partner, Olivia finished the last of her coffee in two big gulps. "Yeah, let me get my coat."

Munch walked into the squadroom and greeted them with a mock salute. "Guess I'm not the only one running behind today."

"Nah, we're on our way out," Elliot said. "Daniel Groth's alibi lives in Jersey City. How's your new case?"

"Easier than the Woodward rape." He hung his coat on the back of his chair and headed to the coffee pot. "Where's Fin?"

"Stuck in traffic."

Cragen stepped out of his office, followed by George Huang. "Olivia, Elliot, got a minute before you leave?"

"Yeah, what's up, Cap?" Elliot propped himself up on the edge of his desk.

"I asked Doctor Huang to take a look at the Woodward rape/murder, see if he could help us find a suspect."

Olivia's smile was genuine, but Elliot's was thin and forced. "We have a few possibilities," he clarified, "but motive isn't clear."

Huang nodded. "This wasn't a stranger rape; this was personal. Something that Judge Woodward did made him angry."

"Yeah, the multiple stab wounds and strangulation made that pretty clear."

Olivia shot a sideways glance at her partner. "Are the rapist and the murderer the same person?"

"It's likely. The housekeeper wasn't supposed to be home at all on the night of the rape, and she had been given the night off when Judge Woodward was murdered. This was probably your guy's first rape and murder, but he's given it a lot of thought. His ability to move off camera, studying both the judge's and the housekeeper's schedules... He's very intelligent. Highly organized, functions well in society. And he most likely has some knowledge of forensics since he managed to leave little, if any, trace evidence."

"A judge would have that knowledge," Munch said, thinking of Casey's run-in with Martin Leonard.

Elliot sighed. "So would a former district attorney like Daniel Groth. And they both knew the victim, live in the same building..."

"It's possible that he intended to kill Judge Woodward on the night of the rape," Huang continued. "His hatred was directed toward the judge, not the housekeeper. That's why he didn't attack her, too. He was only after the judge, and hurting Elena would be wrong."

"A rapist with a conscience," Elliot muttered.

It was Cragen's turn to give him a warning look. "What can you tell us about the murder, Doctor?"

"Choking and other sorts of strangulation takes physical strength and time, and it's also more risky because the victim isn't immediately incapacitated. I suspect that he chose that method because it was satisfying to him. He wanted to watch her die."

"And the stabbing?" Munch asked.

"It served no purpose. He could have choked her to death; the deep bruising on her throat indicated that he had the strength to do it. The stabbing was just a way to further expel his anger and frustration. Maybe he wanted her to suffer more. Maybe it excited him."

"But stabbing is a method usually chosen in a sexually motivated crime," Olivia said. "This doesn't feel like one."

Munch tapped his chin in thought. "Well, she was killed in the kitchen. Maybe he set out to choke her but found it didn't give him the pleasure he was seeking. The knife was the closest weapon, so he reached for it instead."

"It's a very strong possibility," Huang admitted. "The fact that he left her in plain sight, without covering her head or body afterwards, shows that he didn't feel guilty about it. Killing her satisfied a personal motive. It wasn't about sex or domination; it was about anger, possibly revenge."

"Revenge for what?" Olivia wondered aloud.

Cragen looked at the psychologist. "Any suggestions for dealing with him?"

"He doesn't feel remorse for what he's done. In his mind, it was the means to an end. If he's caught, it won't matter how much evidence you have against him; he will deny it."

"_If_ he's caught?" Elliot repeated, narrowing his eyes.

Huang offered him a smile. "He's adamant about not being punished for his crimes because he doesn't see them as wrong, and he's done well to cover his tracks. If he senses you getting close, he'll run ... or fight back. He's only dangerous once he's been pegged for a suspect."

Munch dropped his gaze. A thousand thoughts -- none of them good -- plagued his brain. "Dangerous to everyone?" he asked quietly. Elliot and Olivia turned toward him.

"Probably not," Huang replied. "The person in the most danger is the one who opened the proverbial can of worms: the one who turned suspicion on him in the first place."

* * *

"Casey!"

She looked up from her menu to see Mary Clark weaving her way through the dining room obstacle course, her purse held high enough to avoid hitting other restaurant patrons in the head. "Hi, Mary."

"Sorry I'm late. My oldest son was trying to convince me to co-sign on a lease for a motorcycle. I told him to talk to his father." Mary's grin slipped into a frown. "God, Casey, are you okay? You look exhausted."

"What? Oh, I'm fine." She had tried to hide the dark circles under her eyes with makeup; evidently, she hadn't been successful. "Late night."

"I'll say." Mary skimmed over her menu and started talking about her son's Harley Davidson obsession. "I think he's going to join the Hell's Angels."

Casey nodded and smiled when appropriate, but her mind refused to focus. She'd been unable to sleep, her dreams interjected by repetitions of 'I love it when a plan comes together' said in Leonard's distinguished tone. At one point, she'd called Munch, who was also awake and watching infomercials. It had been just before midnight when she'd dialed his number, and it was almost two o'clock when they'd hung up. She'd slept the remainder of the night but still felt tired, like she'd fought an endless battle in her mind.

"So I hear your department is covering the Woodward murder."

The phrase brought her out of her reverie, and she looked at Mary. "Uh, yes, they are. Benson and Stabler are the primaries."

The waiter came for their order and disappeared without a 'thank you'. "I knew Marianne back when she was an attorney and I was a judge. Very noble, very passionate, but an absolute witch during trial. If there wasn't a gag order, she'd be on the front steps at recess, hand-feeding the press like sea lions at the zoo."

Casey took a sip of her lukewarm coffee. "What do your friends on the bench have to say about her death?"

"They're devastated."

"I went to Judge Woodward's party on Friday night, and they didn't strike me as the sympathetic type."

"Imagine your least favorite co-worker. Now imagine if he or she was raped and a week later murdered. How would you feel?"

She sighed. "Devastated."

"If anything, it's bringing the legal community closer together. I heard them discussing a resurrection of JAASA."

"Led by whom?"

"I don't know." Their meals arrived, and Mary sprinkled pepper over her fettuccine. "I love this place, but the food is getting bland," she said in a low tone. "So you got an invitation to the judge's party."

"What, you didn't?"

"No, we have different political affiliations. Come to think of it, so do you. How'd you manage to get invited?"

"I was a guest of the Special Victims Unit."

"Of course." She flashed a devilish grin. "I also heard you were the belle of the ball."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Casey, please. There's no need to be modest."

A slow smile spread across her face. "I did look really good." She stifled a laugh and began cutting her grilled chicken. "Who told you I was there anyway?"

"Martin Leonard."

Casey dropped her fork, and it clattered against the plate. "Judge Leonard?"

"He said you were quite a dancer."

"Why were you talking to him?"

"We were just making conversation. We were on the bench at the same time, you know. We're old friends." She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "Sometimes you take things too seriously."

They discussed difficulties with current cases throughout lunch. Mary had a few funny stories to tell, as usual, but Casey found herself struggling to focus on their conversation instead of the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Maybe she _was_ taking Judge Leonard's comment too seriously and overreacting. She had said it herself: 'I love it when a plan comes together' was a common phrase, and any 80s television buff would recognize it. Leonard could be completely innocent.

After paying for their meals, they walked back to the courthouse with the rest of the lunch hour crowd. The streets were packed with cars, and Casey was sideswiped by more than one bicyclist trying to get through the hoard of pedestrians. Fortunately, the puddles from last night's storm had dried, or she probably would have found herself soaked.

"What's going on?" Mary gestured to the courthouse steps, where a mob of reporters had surrounded a man on the stairs. "Court's not in session right now."

"I don't know."

They hurried toward the crowd, peering around heads to catch a glimpse of the speaker. Eventually, they made their way around the group to a suitable location. "That looks like Martin."

Casey nodded. Judge Leonard stood in the center, his large head making him easy to spot. The reporters shouted question after question, none of which he answered right away. Instead, he looked pleased, basking in the attention. When he finally did speak, the journalists quieted down and fought over microphone placement.

"I know this all seems sudden, but it's what Marianne would have wanted. If I am elected to the Supreme Court, I will serve in her memory. I promise to keep the same ideals, and I will work to keep convicted child molesters off the street."

"He's running for Justice," Casey whispered. "He's taking Marianne's place as their party's nominee."

"He doesn't have Marianne's spirit," Mary replied, "but he's got longevity. He's a good choice."

Casey turned back toward Leonard as he continued speaking. "Further, I intend to start a fund in her honor: the Marianne Woodward Memorial Fund. Keeping rapists off the street was her life's work, and that money will be used to continue her dreams. But the one thing I want -- even more than winning this election for Marianne -- is to see the man who did this to her brought to justice."

There was a mild smattering of applause before another barrage of questions began. Leonard scanned the crowd with a smile, and his gaze fell on Casey. The grin faltered for an instant before widening, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. _I love it when a plan comes together._ The phrase began to pulse in her head as he stared at her with eyes void of the emotion he'd just expressed to the public.

"Judge Leonard!" a reporter shouted, and he turned his attention to her. "You say you're running for Supreme Court Justice in Marianne Woodward's memory. Prior to her death, did you want to run for this position?"

Casey didn't need to hear his answer; suddenly, everything made sense. She hurried down the courthouse steps toward the street, and Mary followed. "Where are you going?"

"To the precinct," she said as she flagged a taxi. "I forgot something."

Her brows creased. "Casey--"

"Thank you for lunch." The cab that pulled to the curb was still moving when Casey opened the door and jumped in. "I'll call you." She gave the address to the driver, and he merged back into traffic.

Maybe she wasn't overreacting after all.

_End of part six_


	7. Chapter 7 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 7/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Brooker Residence  
Jersey City, New Jersey  
Wednesday, October 27_

"Lyndsey Brooker?"

The woman frowned at Elliot's badge. "NYPD? What are you doing here?"

Olivia peered around her partner's shoulder. "May we come inside?"

Lyndsey opened the door wider and let them both pass. She wore a veterinary assistant's uniform, her light blue top speckled with cartoon dogs and cats. Her hair was dyed red at the top and black on the ends, and she had a diamond stud in her nose. "So what can I do for you?"

"We're here about Daniel Groth," Elliot said.

"Of course you are, but let me save you the trouble. Whatever questions you've come here to ask, the answer is no, Daniel didn't do it." Lyndsey gave an exasperated sigh. "Ever since that woman accused him of rape, he's been the suspect in every investigation. Daniel's one of the good guys. He wouldn't hurt a soul."

"Do cops come around a lot?" Olivia asked.

"They used to. Not so much anymore. I was going to be a character witness in his trial. I've known him since we were roommates during our freshman year of college." She noticed their confused expressions and grinned. "They misread his application for university housing. His middle name is Lee, and they saw Daniel Lee, put the two words together, and thought his name was Daniellee. With two 'e's. Anyway, we got along so well that we didn't bother telling the Housing Department, and everyone just assumed he was my boyfriend." She offered a wink to Elliot. "Kept the hounds at bay."

Olivia cleared her throat. "When's the last time you saw Mr. Groth?"

"Friday night. He helped me pick out some wallpaper for the clinic, then we ordered pizza in and watched some t.v."

"What time did he leave?" Elliot asked.

"Oh, it was pretty early. Maybe eight-thirty?" She folded her arms across her chest. "What's Daniel accused of this time?" A calico cat hopped into the foyer, mewed, and rubbed itself against Lyndsey's leg. "Go on, Duchess. I'll feed you in a minute."

Elliot watched the cat scurry out of the room, presumably toward the kitchen. "Ms. Brooker, did you see Mr. Groth on the seventeenth? It was a Sunday."

Lyndsey nodded. "Despite the fact that we live so far apart, we try to get together whenever we can."

Although Olivia was not entirely convinced, she gave the woman a smile. "Thank you for your time." Lyndsey opened the door for them.

"Detectives?" They turned back to look at her. "Whatever you think Daniel did, you're wrong. He's on the jazz."

The words hit Elliot like a punch in the face. He felt Olivia stiffen at his side. "What did you say?"

"He can get a little crazy sometimes, but he's cool. He would never--"

"No. Where's that quote from?"

"_The A-Team_. Daniel and I watched it religiously while we were in college."

* * *

Munch had been staring at the JAASA group photo for so long, he had memorized the names and positions of each of the individuals. He began developing mnemonics for each row but stopped when he saw Casey's picture.

He'd been thinking about her a lot lately -- perhaps too much. It had been a long time since his thoughts about women weren't angry or disillusioned. Even more distracting was the fact that she was receptive to him. Their two-hour telephone conversation had confirmed that, and it wasn't long before he found himself doing something he swore he'd never do again: he opened up to her. She'd chipped away at his insecurities until his cynical façade was cracked right down the middle.

Last night, at dinner and later on the phone, he'd let her in. He didn't regret it, but it frightened him. No one had ever gotten close to him before, not even his ex-wives; there was always a piece that he'd kept hidden. Casey was different, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because she reminded him of himself: honest with a cool head and a corny sense of humor. Even a bit insecure -- and he was feeling more insecure by the minute.

"Give it a rest, man." Fin had been hovering nearby, tracking his gaze. "You keep staring at that picture like she's going to materialize out of thin air or something."

Munch rolled his eyes and sat the photograph on his desk with a quiet sigh.

"John." Casey stood a few steps inside the squadroom, hands twisting at her waist.

Fin's jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding me."

Munch walked toward her, happy to see her but worried by her demeanor. "Casey, what are you doing here?"

"I know why Judge Leonard killed Marianne Woodward."

"Come on." He put a hand on her upper arm and guided her to the interview room off of Cragen's office. "Sit down. What happened?"

"He just secured his party's nomination as their candidate for Supreme Court Justice."

"What?" Munch pulled a chair next to hers and sat. "Isn't he a member of Woodward's political party?"

"Yes. He's taking her place. He told the press that he's doing it in her memory, but John--" Her eyes pleaded with him. "I think he killed Judge Woodward to get her out of the way. I think he wanted to run for Justice, but the party chose her instead."

"It's possible," he agreed.

"I think it's more than possible. What does your research say?"

"We don't have much yet, just a bit about his background. Fin and I caught another case, and Elliot and Olivia are investigating ... a different angle."

She stood up and turned for the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked, also rising from his chair.

"To conduct my own research."

"Casey--"

"I can get access to his files easier than you can, and it won't look as suspicious--"

"I--"

"He's guilty, John, I know it."

"No, you don't." Munch sighed. "Look, we've got a hit on a guy who lived two floors below Judge Woodward. Elliot and Olivia collared him for a rape back in April, but the victim recanted. They called just before you got here and said his alibi made them even more suspicious. They're going to bring him in for questioning." She began to turn away. "Casey, it's Daniel Groth."

She froze. "The attorney?"

"He's in your JAASA photograph. He knew Judge Woodward." She looked down, and he swung his head until he could meet her gaze again. "He was a fan of _The A-Team_. All of the evidence we have on him is the same evidence we have on Leonard, and you said it yourself: it's circumstantial."

Casey's jaw trembled, and she pressed her lips together to get it to stop. "Marianne Woodward spent a good part of her legal career putting away rapists and murderers. Where's the justice if we can't extend her the same courtesy?"

"Okay," he said after a long pause. "I will make Martin Leonard my top priority. His financials, background, whatever I can find."

"I'll see what I can dig up on his relationship with Judge Woodward."

He was about to protest but changed his mind. She was right about her ability to gather the information with less risk and suspicion, and there was no reason to worry her with Huang's unsettling prediction about the perpetrator's anger, especially if Leonard was innocent. "Be careful."

"I will." She started for the doorway but stopped before passing through. "John?" He lifted his head to see her smile at him. "Thanks."

* * *

"What do you think, Liv?"

She merged onto the highway and sped toward New York City. "I don't know."

Elliot began counting off on one hand. "Daniel Groth knew Judge Woodward. He lived in her building. He's a fan of _The A-Team_. He's been accused of rape before."

"Rape, not murder. And she recanted, remember? Besides, Groth is right handed."

"How do you know that?"

"He wore his watch on his left wrist."

He gave a small shrug. "A lot of people wear their watches on their dominant wrists."

"Don't forget the wonder crêpe fibers from the bed."

"There's no way to tell which judge's robe they're from; they could still have come from Marianne Woodward's robe." He frowned. "Yesterday, you didn't think Judge Leonard did it. Today, you don't think Daniel Groth did it."

"What motive does he have? Judge Woodward didn't have anything to do with the DA's office firing him. If he was going to get revenge, it wouldn't be on her." Her cell phone rang, and she sighed. "Grab that, will you?"

"Stabler." He listened to the voice on the other end, and a smile spread across his face. "Thanks. I owe you one." He hung up and looked at Olivia. "That was Tara from the lab. She said the techs just finished going through the trace evidence they collected from the bedding."

"And?"

"They found cat hairs."

"Cat hairs? Judge Woodward didn't have a cat." She glanced at him, realization settling on her features. "But Lyndsey Brooker did. That calico. Transfer evidence?"

He nodded. "From Lyndsey Brooker's cat to Daniel Groth's clothes to Marianne Woodward's sheets."

Olivia punched the accelerator, and the car lurched into a higher gear. "Let's pick him up."

* * *

_Groth Law Office  
Broadway and West 52nd Street  
Wednesday, October 27_

Groth's firm was essentially three rooms: the reception area, his office, and a bathroom. The walls were sterile white, interrupted by the occasional splash of color in the form of a tapestry or painting. Elliot pulled open the front door, and a small bell tinkled, indicating his arrival. Olivia followed, removing her badge from her pocket as she walked.

They were greeted by a bleached blonde with a fake smile. "Can I help you?" Her deep Southern accent seemed out of place in the middle of New York City.

Elliot showed his credentials. "Detectives Stabler and Benson, Manhattan SVU. We need to see Daniel Groth."

She raised her dark eyebrow. "He's not in right now."

"Do you know where we can find him?" Olivia asked.

"He's with a client out of the office. I can tell him you stopped by..." She watched them go around the corner to look in his office for confirmation. "Is there something wrong? Hello?"

Elliot bounded toward her, and she jumped back. "Can you contact him?"

"Contact him?"

"If there's an emergency, how do you get in touch with him?"

"I don't," she said. "He calls me."

Olivia looked at her partner before dialing a number on her cell phone. "Yeah, this is Detective Benson, Manhattan SVU. I need a patrol car at the corner of Broadway and West Fifty-Second."

The receptionist's neatly manicured hands began to shake, and she dropped into her chair. "Am I being arrested?"

"I want you to listen to me very carefully." Elliot waited until her attention was focused on him. "If Daniel Groth calls in, I want you to tell him there's an emergency and he needs to return to the office right away. Don't tell him you talked to us."

"What kind of emergency?"

"I don't care -- something believable."

"Uh ... his biggest client wants to meet with him at five o'clock sharp." She seemed pleased by her excuse.

"Fine. A patrol officer will be here shortly to sit with you. Liv, come on."

Olivia finished up her telephone conversation and followed him out the door. "I just put out an APB on Groth and his vehicle."

"Let's see if he's at home."

"You know ... I've got a friend in Jersey City."

"Cop friend?"

She gave him one big nod before reaching for her cell phone again. "I'll have him sit on Lyndsey Brooker. She might've tipped him off, or he could show up there."

He snatched the keys from her hand. "I'm driving."

* * *

Munch tapped on the keyboard at his computer, entering Martin Leonard's name into every search program he had access to. So far, he'd come up with a nice little biography of the judge. Nothing too telling, but the night was young.

His cell phone played its version of 'La Cucaracha', and he glanced at the caller ID. Casey Novak. He paused. Which greeting would be more appropriate? A cheerful 'hello' or his standard 'Munch' or maybe even 'hey, Casey' to suggest that she had been programmed into his phone. She had secured number two on his speed dial, trumped only by SVU's main line. He'd even moved Fin back to number three.

"John?" Cragen's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he pointed to Munch's cell. "You gonna answer that?"

He picked up the phone. "Munch."

"_John, it's Casey. Sorry to bother you--_"

"It's no bother. How are you?"

"_Fine. A little tired._"

"Me, too. It's been a long day. What can I do for you?"

"_I started my research on Judge Leonard. Listen to this. Before he was appointed to the bench, he used to work for one of the largest firms in the city. They were looking for another partner, and it was a toss-up between him and a man named Greg McCarthy._"

"And they picked McCarthy?"

"_Initially._" Her tone grew very serious, and Munch glanced around the squadroom out of habit. "_But then McCarthy suffered a severe heart attack and had to retire from practicing. Leonard was handed the partnership._"

"A heart attack?"

"_McCarthy was thirty-nine, he was physically fit, ran a couple miles every morning--_"

"Unfortunately, that doesn't prove anything. I've known guys who eat greasy cheeseburgers every day and haven't had a heart attack. I've also heard of Olympic athletes having heart attacks -- sometimes at a young age."

There was a pause. "_Yeah, you're right. Well, have you heard from Elliot and Olivia?_"

"They're out looking for Groth."

"_Out looking for him? He's disappeared?_"

"According to his secretary, he was out visiting a client, but it's now--" He pushed up his jacket sleeve to check his watch. "--quarter til six and he hasn't returned to the office, hasn't gone home, hasn't called for messages. I think they said they were going back to Jersey City to talk to his girlfriend."

"_Well, what are you doing tonight?_"

His heart skipped a little. "Oh, I've got a hot date with my couch tonight. Just me, her, and the Sci-Fi Channel."

"_Sounds enjoyable,_" she said with a chuckle. "_Certainly beats my evening of trial prep. Tyrone had an emergency appendectomy early this morning. I'm covering it for him._"

"What kind of case is it?"

"_Petty theft and aggravated battery. The defendant attacked a bulk food store employee and stole seventy dollars worth of olives._"

He frowned. "I'm sorry ... did you say olives?"

"_Don't ask. Anyway, Tyrone started on the opening statement, but I need to finish it._"

"Well, if you need someone to practice on, my couch and I would be happy to oblige."

She laughed. He could get used to that sound. Cragen looked at him then, and Munch wondered if he had just spoken aloud. "_I might take you up on that,_" Casey said. "_Want to have lunch with me tomorrow? Go over our respective research?_"

"You're only interested in me for my brilliant detective skills, aren't you?"

"_If that's what you think, John, then your detectives skills really aren't that brilliant._" Unable to speak, he nodded, not realizing that she couldn't see him. "_I'll meet you tomorrow around noon._"

He didn't move, even after the dial tone began to hammer in his ear. Did she just say... "Yes, she did," he muttered, dropping the cell phone back on his desk. A slow smile spread across his face.

* * *

_Brooker Residence  
Jersey City, New Jersey  
Wednesday, October 27_

"Okay. For the last time, I ... don't ... know." Lyndsey Brooker rubbed her hairline with both hands. "I didn't call Daniel, he hasn't called me, he hasn't stopped by. I don't know where he is."

"Where were you on the seventeenth?" Olivia asked. "Really."

She rolled her head along the back of the couch, and her cat pawed at her big hoop earring. "Cut it out, Duchess." She looked up at the detectives again and sighed. "I was at a rave. I don't know where Daniel was, but he wasn't here."

"So you lied."

"Look, lady--" Lyndsey stood up, but the look on Elliot's face made her rethink her next words. "Daniel's like a brother to me. He would never hurt anybody."

Elliot frowned. "But Daniel referred to you as his girlfriend."

"I'm sure he did. He did the same for me in college when I didn't want guys knocking down my door. It's a mutually beneficial relationship."

"He have a lot of girls knocking at his door?"

Lyndsey smirked. "No. Well, unless you count his lady clients."

"So is Daniel seeing anyone?" he asked.

"Yes," she said at last, as if she had to search every corner of her brain for the answer.

"Who?"

"Alex."

He reached for his notebook. "Alex who?"

"Alex Dumas. Like the writer."

"Do you know where she lives?" Olivia asked.

Lyndsey stared at her for a long moment before chuckling. "Sorry, can't help you there. Somewhere in Manhattan, I'm sure."

When she sat back on the couch again, they stepped out of the living room. Elliot stuck his hands in his pockets. "You get the feeling we're the brunt of one big joke and she's not telling us the punchline?"

"Maybe we'll know more when we find Alex Dumas."

* * *

_Dumas Residence  
Manhattan, New York  
Wednesday, October 27_

The man who answered the door was not Daniel Groth, but he was good-looking just the same, especially with his easy smile and deep blue eyes. Olivia held up her badge and gave him a smile of her own. "Sorry to disturb you at this hour, sir. I'm Detective Benson. This is my partner, Detective Stabler. We're looking for Alex Dumas."

"You've found him." He looked to Elliot, and his grin broadened. "How can I help you, Detectives?"

"Is that the curry?" came a voice from inside. "It's about time." Daniel Groth appeared behind Dumas, and he exhaled sharply. "Well, congratulations. You've found me. You're not as bad of detectives as I thought."

"May we come inside?" Elliot asked, trying to wipe the surprise off his face but failing miserably.

"Why not?" Dumas stepped aside and let them pass, his eyes dropping to Elliot's backside. "Are they here for you, Dan?"

"Most likely. They've been following me for the last couple of days, looking for a scapegoat for the Woodward murder." Groth sunk into a black leather sofa and gazed at Elliot and Olivia with contempt. "Run out of suspects again?"

"Can I get either of you anything to drink?" Dumas asked.

"No," Groth answered for them. "They won't be staying long. Oh, Detectives, have you met my partner, Alex Dumas? We've been together for the past three and a half years, out of the scope of the homophobes and our respective bosses."

Olivia sighed, quietly enough that no one heard her except Elliot. "Why didn't you just tell us?"

"And what, be outed by the police? You see, Detectives, I value my right to privacy, which your squad has done little to protect. Annie cries rape; you start hounding me. I lost my job, I lost my friends, I lost almost everything because of you."

"We're required to follow up on any valid claim," Elliot said.

"_Valid_ claim," he repeated. "Annie's claim was far from valid. As I told you before, she got drunk. Anyone at the party could attest to that. I helped her upstairs to her hotel room, also which anyone at the party could attest to. When we got inside, she ripped open her blouse and knocked me on the bed, but I pushed her off. I left and went home; she probably passed out. Unless defending myself is a crime, I never touched her inappropriately." He looked at Dumas. "Now Judge Woodward was murdered, and I'm the prime suspect because I happened to be photographed with her a year ago." His gaze returned to the detectives. "I'm sure that some gay men commit rape as an attempt to prove that they aren't gay, that they still get turned on by women, but I'm not like that."

"Then why didn't you just admit that?"

Groth stared at Olivia, jaw hinged open in disbelief. "You have no clue, do you? You think that an assistant district attorney and a high school football coach can just be open about their homosexual relationship? Alex would be the target of hate mail, death threats... Knowing the Brooklyn DA and his staunch views on Catholicism, he would've found any excuse to fire me, and I would've lost any recommendation I could've received from that office."

"But you were fired anyway," Elliot pointed out.

"Not for being gay. The DA's office prosecutes sexual offenders, not employs them. He fired me because he didn't think we could bounce back from Annie's allegations. But he did promise me a glowing recommendation to any firm I wanted. I decided to open my own practice instead." He stood up and began pacing the living room. Dumas watched him with growing concern. "I tell everyone I'm dating Lyndsey and that Alex is my step-brother. Alex is engaged to his childhood sweetheart, who just so happens to be a photojournalist on assignment in the Congo at the moment."

Dumas looked at the detectives almost apologetically. "For what it's worth, Dan was with me the night of the judge's rape."

"The night of the murder, I have no alibi. I was at home, alone, but Alex and I did talk on the phone for about a half an hour. Check my phone records, if you want."

"That won't be necessary." Olivia turned toward the door. "Thank you for your time. I hope you and your brother have a good night."

Elliot followed her out of the building and into the car. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the ignition. Olivia sat beside him, shaking her head. "We were so wrong," she muttered. "Look what he's been through. I don't know if I could do it. Could you hide your true feelings about the one you love?"

"You do what you have to do," he said softly.

"And we were no help," she continued. "Why did I even _think_ he was a suspect? He was right; he wasn't convicted. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions."

"Don't be so hard on yourself. We had evidence suggesting he had committed both crimes." He pulled away from the curb and headed for her apartment. "He was a good suspect, Liv. He just wasn't the right one."

Her cell phone rang, and she answered it. She listened to the voice on the other line, interjecting when appropriate, then hung up with a sigh. "That was the lab. Blood on the fork from Judge Woodward's apartment does not match Groth's DNA that we had on file. Actually, it doesn't match anyone in the system so far."

"That eliminates a few people."

"Maybe Casey was right. We should focus our efforts on Martin Leonard."

"I'm pretty sure Munch has been following up on Leonard on his own time."

She chuckled at that. "Yeah, you're probably right."

* * *

_Señor Swanky's Mexican Cafe & Speakeasy  
New York City, NY  
Thursday, October 28_

Casey was late for lunch, spouting numerous apologies, but Munch dismissed them easily. She dropped into the chair across from him, her briefcase landing on the floor with a thud. "I'm not wired for these late nights," she said.

"You work too hard."

"I did finish my opening statement though, ran through it a couple of times in front of the mirror. Then I got a call this morning. The defendant was badly beaten by some other inmates. Case continued indefinitely."

"Those inmates must be really serious about their martinis."

The waiter came by, and they ordered a large plate of chicken-topped nachos to share. Casey shuffled through her briefcase until she found her folder. "Here," she said, passing it to Munch. "This is what I came up with."

He gave her a folder of his own. "Voilà."

"Anything good?" she asked as she thumbed through the pages.

"You mean, does he fit the criteria for a vindictive psychopath? Not according to the profile. He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth."

"Then they should update their profile. I know a lot of vindictive psychopaths who grew up with silver spoons in their mouths."

He chuckled. "I'm not talking run-of-the-mill weirdos, I'm talking hard-core, mentally unbalanced freaks."

"So am I. You should come around the courthouse more often."

Munch focused on her findings, surprised at her meticulous detail. It read somewhat like the reports he had filed after a case. Whoever said attorneys made the worst writers was mistaken. "This is really good, Casey. Very thorough."

"Thank you. Unfortunately, it doesn't prove anything. The most suspicious thing I found was McCarthy's heart attack."

"I saw Leonard's acceptance speech on the news last night. He reminded me of a puppy getting his ears rubbed, the way he was acting with all of the attention."

"Smug," she agreed, closing the folder.

"There's a satellite location for the party nearby the courthouse. I might have to make an appearance." He piled some ground beef onto a chip and stuck it into his mouth, chewing carefully. "So how are you doing? Better?"

"I'm okay."

She didn't sound convincing, but he pretended not to notice. "Good."

"I have a hearing before Judge Leonard tomorrow afternoon."

"You want me to go with you?"

"No, I'll be fine." A shy smile threatened her feigned indifference, and she hid it by taking another bite. Much of the rest of their lunch was spent in silence, but it didn't bother her. Neither did their occasional furtive glances and smiles at each other. There was some psychological view about that, that a relationship was sound when you could spend hours together without speaking and not feel uncomfortable. What kind of relationship did she and Munch have, exactly? She wished she knew.

They headed back to the courthouse after lunch, enjoying the mild October weather. Unlike before, Munch seemed distant, walking beside her almost an arm's length away. Something had changed between the restaurant and the walk back. She assumed, hoped, it had to do with his caseload; the police were at a standstill on Judge Woodward's rape and murder, and she knew from experience that they took it personally. If there was one thing she had learned about Munch, it was his habit of internailzing everything. Whatever was bothering him, he wasn't going to say it out loud.

Carefully, she slid one hand around his forearm and sighed. "You're quiet."

"I'm pondering the meaning of life."

"Come on, I think I know you better than that." She wet her lips. "Is it the Woodward case?"

"Some of it."

"And the rest?" She chanced a quick look at him; he was watching the sidewalk. The courthouse was in sight, and their pace slowed as they approached the steps. She released him. "Well, thanks for lunch and for the research. I'll see you later."

As she started to turn away, Munch spoke. "Hypothetical situation. You're an attorney who, despite your best efforts and intentions, has lost every case you've ever tried."

"This really is a hypothetical," she teased.

"Casey--"

"Sorry. Okay, I've lost every case I've ever tried."

"You read all the books about becoming a better lawyer. You gave it your best shot, completely attentive to the needs of your case. But in the long run, it didn't matter. You still lost. The last case you had -- the one you thought was going to end your losing streak -- was stolen from you by some other bastard attorney."

She tried not to laugh. "Yeah, I hate those."

"So you throw in the towel and quit. You move to a different state, and you promise yourself that you'll never try another case again. What's the point? You're just not attorney material."

The underlying story was not lost on her. She knew about his failed relationships, how his last wife had cheated on him with a friend and fellow officer. It was the catalyst that had prompted his move to New York. Still, his admission was confusing. It had been years; did it still bother him that much? "John--"

"But then one day," he continued, "you come across the most amazing case, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, you find yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe ... this is the one."

Casey dropped her gaze and let out a shaky breath. She wished he hadn't been so roundabout in his confession; she wanted to make absolutely sure that she wasn't misinterpreting what he was saying. "The one to end your losing streak?"

"Not just that. The one that would allow you to retire. You'd never have to practice again because the success of this case would keep you going for the rest of you life. So what should you do?" He shrugged, as if the answer didn't really matter. Typical Munch -- hardening his heart in case the answer wasn't the one he was hoping for. "Go for it? Or let a more competent, more successful, and possibly more handsome attorney take a shot?"

"First things first: you've got to stop speaking in metaphors." She lifted her head to look at him, her pulse racing, an answer on her lips.

"Ah, Ms. Novak, Detective ... Munch, was it?" Judge Leonard walked toward them, a can of ginger ale in hand. "Lovely day for October."

"Congratulations on your nomination," Casey said with a forced smile. "It's quite an honor."

"Thank you, Counselor."

Munch also smiled, but his was clearly insincere. "You've got big shoes to fill."

"Yes, Dick Robbins made a fine justice, but even the best of us old birds know when to fly south for the winter."

"Actually, I meant Marianne Woodward." Leonard's eyes darkened at the comment, but Munch plowed on. "She was clearly a party favorite, and it was obvious why. She had a great media presence. The press loved her, the people loved her, even we in the NYPD loved her. She created JAASA, helped to fund the building of the new shelter for rape victims. I tend to be pretty pessimistic about our country's electoral system, but I was going to vote for her -- and that was before the rape. After that, though, she was a shoo-in for the position. Overcoming adversity and turning it into something positive, _that's_ what she stood for. What do you stand for?"

Casey resisted the urge to kick him in the leg. Leonard's grip on his beverage had tightened, and a vein in his wide forehead was almost pulsing out of the skin. She heard the welcomed sound of a clock chiming in the distance.

Munch smirked at him. "Saved by the bell."

Leonard matched his gaze. "Indeed. Ms. Novak, I'll see you in court." He turned toward the courthouse, dropped his can in the nearest garbage receptacle, and marched up the steps.

Casey let out the breath she had been holding. "Was that necessary?"

"Absolutely."

"Why?"

He took a few slow steps toward the courthouse. "I was merely proving my point."

"And what point was that?"

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an ink pen. "That no matter how smart a criminal may seem..." He reached into the trash can like he was on a fishing expedition and lifted up Judge Leonard's empty ginger ale can with the pen, which he had inserted into the hole at the top of the can. "...he always makes one fatal mistake."

_End of part seven_


	8. Chapter 8 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 8/14  
by Keri

Fin found his partner loitering outside of the small suite rented out to Judge Leonard's political party. "Heard about your little treasure hunt earlier."

"Finders keepers, losers weepers."

"I bet Casey was impressed."

Munch scoffed. "Not you, too."

"Hey, I had to withhold coffee from Benson and Stabler for half an hour to get the whole story. Of course I'm going to use it."

"Only half an hour? Addicts break my heart." Munch pulled open the door and stepped inside. The room was decorated in earth tones, giving it a warm, homely feeling. It was surprisingly small, consisting only of the waiting area and a short hallway presumably leading back to an office or two.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," a plump, cheery woman greeted, rounding the corner of her desk to stand by them. She stood as tall as Fin's shoulders with a mass of dark curls atop her head. "How may I help you?"

"I'm Detective Munch, this is my partner, Detective Tutuola. We're with the Manhattan SVU."

"We're investigating the rape and murder of Marianne Woodward," Fin continued.

The woman's smile vanished, and she heaved a sigh. "Marianne was absolutely wonderful. It is such a, a ... _tragedy_."

"You are?" Munch asked.

"Oh. Lori Neumeister. I maintain this satellite location. Is there something I can do to help your investigation?"

Fin glanced at his partner before taking the lead. "You know, we've talked to a lot of Marianne's friends, but we still don't feel that we have a good picture of her life. The judges said this, the relatives said this, but we want to know what _you_ think."

"What I think?" Her eyes lit up with pleasure.

"Yeah. Did you know Marianne well?"

"Sure. She used to stop by here on a regular basis, just to say hello."

Munch raised an eyebrow. Someone actually thought Marianne Woodward was friendly. "Did you talk about anything else?"

"Actually," Lori said proudly, "I was the first one she told about funding the Manhattan Rape Crisis Shelter."

"Sounds like you two were pretty close," Fin said with just enough admiration to keep her talking.

"She was very active in the party and in the community. She kept everything in balance. We all miss her." She paused, her brow dipping into a frown. "Most of us, anyway."

"Who won't?"

She looked at Fin. "Well, you have to understand, this is an organization, and like any organization, there's bound to be conflicts of interest. Plus Marianne was a great spinner. Some people didn't like that."

"What kind of things did she spin?"

Lori didn't reply, looking around nervously as if there were cameras in the walls. As far as Munch trusted politics, there probably were. "We knew that Justice Robbins was having health problems long before he ever made the announcement that he would be retiring before the end of his term. And even back then, we began to wonder who we would want to take his place. Marianne was not our first choice, originally. She's fairly new to the bench, was never a hard-hitting political figure. Nice enough woman. Really good at what she did when she was an attorney and a fine judge, but..."

"It was too soon," Munch finished for her.

"Our first choice was Martin Leonard." She gave a little shrug. "He doesn't impress me, not that anyone ever asked for my opinion."

"Why don't you tell us?" Fin asked.

"Well, he's never come down to the office. I don't even think I've seen him at Headquarters. He just acts so arrogant that I try not to have anything to do with him. But I will concede one thing: he's quite brilliant. His idea to create JAASA -- uh, the Judicial Advocates Against Sexual Assault -- went over better than we ever could have hoped."

Fin exchanged glances with his partner. "We were under the impression that Marianne Woodward founded JAASA."

She gave a little shrug. "I told you she was a spinner."

* * *

_16th Precinct  
Special Victims Unit  
Thursday, October 28_

"Talked to the lab earlier," Olivia mentioned, sliding into her chair with a mug of coffee in one hand. She took a sip before continuing. "You remember that picture in Elena's bedroom of herself?"

Elliot nodded. "Yeah. I thought it was a little odd."

"Turns out that inside the frame, beneath the picture of her, is a picture of her son."

"Always keeping him close." He paused. "I'm not sure I could do it, Liv. Give my kids to someone halfway across the world to raise, only have a picture of them, not get to see them grow up."

Before she could say anything, Munch and Fin walked into the squadroom. She raised her free hand in greeting. "Hey, guys. Any luck?"

"Daniel Groth is for sure not a suspect?" Munch asked.

"He is for sure not a suspect," she replied.

He looked at Fin, who went to get the captain, then back at the other detectives. "It's Martin Leonard. I'd bet my pension on it."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty steep bet. What makes you so sure?"

"Most of the evidence we've collected so far is circumstantial, but we've worked with less and caught the right guy. Fin and I just got back from visiting a couple of work offices that the party has set up. Most of them didn't like the fact that we were investigating their nominee."

"I can see why," Elliot said. "The first one was murdered, and the second one might have done it."

"We didn't leave empty-handed, though. Lori Neumeister works at the party office closest to the courthouse. According to her, Marianne Woodward was not the brains behind JAASA; Martin Leonard was. He came up with the idea, but Woodward stole it from him and created the program herself."

"What did he do about that?" Olivia asked.

"Nothing. Of course, Woodward never really said one way or the other about the idea behind the program; she merely got it off the ground and took all the credit."

"So Leonard has been fuming ever since." Elliot looked at an invisible point on the wall, brows furrowed. "Does he have a cat?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think Casey would?"

Munch glanced at his watch. "She's in court right now. I could leave a message with her secretary, have her call when she gets in."

"Do it," Cragen said. "The more evidence we can build against him, the stronger our case. Circumstantial or not, it might be enough to sway the jury. And if the DNA from the blood on the fork matches the DNA on the can of ginger ale, we could put him away."

"I also have this." Munch presented his folder on Leonard's past and Casey's report about his activities in the legal field. "His life story and career history. There isn't much there, but maybe Huang could take a look at it."

"All right," Cragen said, "good job. Hopefully we can get this wrapped up without another incident."

* * *

Casey stomped out of the courthouse, nearly tripping in her haste. That was just what she needed, she thought sarcastically, to topple down the steps and be stuck in a full body cast for a few months. She bit back the curse that she desperately wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.

"Casey!" Steve Adams ran after her, catching up at the bottom of the stairs. "Listen, I know that you're upset--"

She came to an abrupt halt, and he bumped into her. "Upset? Oh, I'm not upset, Mr. Adams; I'm furious. You know as well as I do that there was _nothing_ improper about the search of the defendant's residence. The detectives on the case followed the book."

"Oh, come on, Casey. Your evidence was circumstantial; your detectives never should've gotten that search warrant in the first place. Judge Leonard was right to throw it out."

"The city won't be happy that a rapist is walking free."

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe my client is innocent?"

With a groan, Casey continued toward her office, wishing that he'd stop following her. No such luck.

"Can I give you a word of friendly advice?"

"No."

Adams was undaunted. "Don't take it personally. You win some, you lose some. Besides, it's not like Judge Leonard has some vendetta against you. Let it go."

His words hit harder than she thought they would. Was that what it was? An exercise of power? Was he taunting her with his ruling? 'Circumstantial evidence has no place in court, so you'll never convict me.' Or was it a challenge?

* * *

"Casey, thanks for returning my call." Munch leaned back in his chair, his cell phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he mixed hot water with ramen noodles. The lunch of champions. "Do you know if Judge Leonard has a cat?"

_"I don't think so,"_ she replied, _"but if I remember correctly, his cousin does."_

"His cousin?"

_"Yeah, they're pretty close. She lives in my building actually -- same floor, too. That's how Judge Leonard and I found out we visited the same batting cages. He saw me coming in with my gear as he was leaving, we started talking..."_ There was a pause, and he could picture her shaking her head, wondering how she had missed his apparent homicidal tendencies. _"Seems like forever ago."_

"What's the cousin's name?"

_"Cynthia Gray. She's in a wheelchair after a car accident left her paraplegic. He comes over to visit her at least once a week. I haven't seen him lately, though."_

"Okay, thanks, Casey."

_"There's something else,"_ she said, _"something unrelated to the Woodward murder."_

"What is it?"

_"Judge Leonard threw out the search that you and Fin did on Marty Castello's residence. Case dismissed due to lack of evidence."_

"What? Why?"

_"He found your methods of obtaining evidence improper. Said that the crowbar wasn't in plain sight. I'm filing my appeal first thing tomorrow morning."_

Munch took a breath. There had been nothing improper about their search. "Casey, do you think that he--"

_"--ruled that way as a warning?"_

"You said it, not me."

_"Last week, I would've said no way. Leonard has always been fair, and I've never had a problem with any of his decisions."_

"And now?"

_"Now? I don't have a clue."

* * *

_

The theme to _The Patty Duke Show_ played in the back of Munch's mind as he looked at Cynthia Gray. Judge Leonard's cousin could've been a fraternal twin of his: same build, same coloring, same disproportionately large head. The only real difference was Cynthia Gray was a woman confined to a wheelchair.

After introducing themselves, he and Elliot had been invited inside her apartment. Surprisingly, it looked completely different than Casey's across the hall. There were very few furnishings, allowing her to wheel around from room to room with ease, and it made the whole place seem brighter and more open. The walls were dotted with watercolor paintings of fruit, flowers, and landscapes. An easel had been set up near the large living room window.

"It happened when I was, oh, about nineteen, I guess," she said, looking at the detectives with a sad smile on her lips. "My boyfriend at the time was driving fast down a two lane highway in the middle of a rainstorm. I don't really remember what happened, but the police found me fifty feet from the road. The truck was upside down. He walked away with hardly a scratch, but I ... I ended up like this. No regrets though. Without being like this, I would never have gotten into painting."

"These are good," Elliot said, pointing to a painting of a lighthouse overlooking the ocean. "Ever consider selling them?"

"Painting is my therapy. Selling them would be like losing a part of myself. Besides, I don't need the money. I invested my settlement proceeds, and I have no financial difficulties."

Elliot nodded a few times. "You have any family nearby?"

"Just my cousin, Martin."

"Oh, the, uh ... judge, right?"

"Yes. He was recently nominated as his party's choice for Supreme Court Justice." Her pale blue eyes narrowed slightly, and Munch was reminded once again of her cousin. "I'm sorry, why did you say you were here?"

"We're investigating the murder of Marianne Woodward," Munch answered. "She was a colleague of your cousin's."

"I know. Martin's just sick about it, and so am I. Marianne had been over to my apartment more than once for dinner. She was such a nice woman." There was a tiny mew from the kitchen, and a calico cat darted into the room and jumped onto Cynthia's lap. "What's the matter, Cleo?"

Elliot grinned widely. "My kids have been begging me for months to get them a cat."

"They're wonderful companions."

"Can I pet him?"

"Sure."

He reached down and scratched the cat's ears for a moment before stroking its back, his coat sleeve rubbing across the fur as well. "He's very soft."

Munch noticed the brown hairs stuck on Elliot's clothing and smiled. "Did Marianne Woodward ever mention any problems she had with anyone? Any mention of harassing letters or phone calls?"

"No. She always seemed very happy." Cynthia's eyebrows rose. "You don't think anyone's after Martin, do you?"

"We're just exploring all possible angles," Elliot said. "We take all rapes and murders very seriously."

"I hope you catch the person who did this, Detectives. If anything were to happen to Martin, I don't know what I'd do."

* * *

_Murphy's Pub  
New York City, NY  
Friday, October 29_

The five of them sat around a small circular table, two pitchers of beer and a half-empty plate of potato skins taking up most of the space on top. There was little enthusiasm among them, and their conversation did nothing to improve it.

"We went over Patrol's interviews with the residents and employees from Woodward's building, this time following the murder," Elliot said. "Nobody saw anything, heard anything, or has anything to add. Except the building manager, who threatened to sue the city if we continued our harassment."

Olivia shook her head. "It's a murder investigation. When will they learn?"

"Probably never." Fin poured himself another glass. "All they see are a bunch of uniformed officers swarming their precious building. That doesn't look good for prospective tenants."

Munch finished off his beer and gestured for Fin to refill his as well. "He'll have lots of openings if people keep dying."

Casey forked the end of a potato skin into her mouth. "Any more suspects?" Both Elliot and Olivia shook their heads. "So that leaves Martin Leonard. Did you talk to Cynthia?"

Elliot grunted. "Talk about a guilt trip. Leonard is her only family in the area. He takes her to the symphony, brings her groceries, visits every Tuesday and Saturday and sometimes more. She hopes Woodward's murder is just a one-time thing, not a criminal on a mission to wipe out the city's judges because she can't imagine life without her beloved cousin."

"Hard to believe people still think he's human," Munch said. "Did you get the cat hair to the lab?"

"Yep; they said they'd get started on the comparison right away." Elliot took a drink. "Casey, how does the court feel about subpoenaing a cat?"

"I can get a court order to have the owner produce the cat." She looked up and noticed his broad grin. "Well, I can..."

He laughed. "I was only kidding."

"No, we may have to. If the defense casts any doubt on where we got the cat hairs, we may need to order Cynthia to bring her cat to court, at which point we'll take a new sample to prove the cat hairs in Judge Woodward's bed matched the hairs from Cleo the calico." She sighed, pushing her empty glass toward the center of the table. "I hate to be the one to break up the party, but I'm exhausted."

"It's just now eleven," Olivia said. "Sure you don't want to stay a while?"

Casey shook her head. "No, thanks. If I hear one more Hank Williams song, I'll fall asleep at the table."

"Here, I'll go with you," Munch said.

"Oh, that's not--"

"I insist."

She looked at him for a moment and, in a soft tone, said, "Okay."

Elliot watched Munch help her into her coat. He leaned toward Olivia. "Who would've thought Munch could be such a gentleman?"

She chuckled and looked at Fin to see if he wanted in on the joke. The man's attention was focused on the television above the bar, and his face was twisted into a frown. Before she could ask what was wrong, he called out, "Hey, Joe! Turn that up, would you?"

The bartender obliged, and the five of them turned toward the evening news. An image of Martin Leonard was floating beside the anchorman's head, along with the words 'No Justice'. "...recently replaced the late Marianne Woodward as his party's nominee. Officials won't say why they have decided to go with a different candidate, but one thing is clear: Martin Leonard will not be on the ballot for Supreme Court Justice come March. Telephone calls to Judge Leonard were not returned. In other news..."

Olivia's eyebrows rose. "They took Leonard off the ballot? Why?"

"Maybe it had something to do with our visit to the party offices," Fin said, looking at Munch.

"Maybe," he muttered. His mind drifted back to Huang's earlier assessment, how Casey could be a target. Judge Leonard had already exercised his powers in the courtroom; now that he had no chance of being elected to the Supreme Court, what would he do? He faced Casey. Her expression was calm, but he could see the anxiety in her eyes. "Come on; I'll take you home."

* * *

Casey unlocked the door to her apartment and stumbled inside. An hour at the batting cages, sandwiched between a two mile run to and from the park, made her body feel like Jell-O, but it was exactly what she needed.

She placed her bat and gear against the wall by the front door and headed for the bathroom, peeling off clothes as she went. She started up the faucet in the shower, adjusting the temperature until it was almost too hot for her to handle, then climbed in. The spray felt good against her aching muscles, and she let out a long breath.

Twenty-four hours. It had been twenty-four hours since anyone had seen or heard from Martin Leonard. His clerk hadn't seen him since he left on Friday, and no one answered at his home and he hadn't returned any of his calls. Had he known that his party was going to take back his nomination? And worse, did he know why?

There was something that John wasn't telling her. She could see it in his face whenever he looked at her. A cross between worry and ... fear.

Casey climbed out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. After making sure her feet were dry, she headed to the bedroom for a change of clothes. A cool breeze sent goosebumps across her skin, and she frowned. The window in her room was open, wide enough for an arm to fit through.

It wasn't open when she left.

She grabbed a pair of sweat pants, a tank top, and undergarments and backed out of the room to change. She knew she hadn't opened the window. The lock had gotten stuck in the open position earlier in the week, and she had called the super. Maybe the building's maintenance crew had fixed it while she had been gone and left it open. At least, she hoped that was what had happened.

Once dressed, she returned to her bedroom and walked slowly to the window. The sounds of the city grew louder as she approached. A quick gust of wind blew in and tousled the curtains, chilling her heart. Casey glanced outside and reached for the lock. It turned both directions easily, so the maintenance crew must have left the window cracked open. Still unsettled, she opened the window all the way and stuck her head out, looking up and down the fire escape. Nothing.

"You're losing your mind," she muttered. The murder of Judge Woodward and the fact that Judge Leonard may have done it had turned her cool and collected world upside down. Now she was imagining things. Again.

There was a knock at the door. She jumped at the sound then chastised herself. She went into the living room and looked through the peephole. Munch was on the other side. She glanced at herself in the mirror by the door. Great. Sweats, wet hair, no make-up. _No time to fix that now,_ she thought as she opened the door. "John."

"Casey." He fanned out two DVDs. "Want to make it a Blockbuster night?"

She chuckled. "What?"

"Seeing as how it's the night before Halloween, I figured you could use a horror movie fest."

"I see. What did you bring?"

"Uh, _Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein_ and _Night of the Living Dead_."

She couldn't hide her grin. A part of her didn't want to anyway. "I'll make the popcorn."

He stepped inside her apartment and closed and locked the door for her. He noticed a large bowl of candy on the counter. "Your dentist must be making a million off your cavities."

"Oh, that's for the trick-or-treaters. Our building has a designated time for the kids to come around and get candy. Last year, I ran out. Figured I'd better stock up this time."

He snuck a miniature Milky Way when she wasn't looking, turning away so he could shove it surreptitously in his pocket. He noticed her bat leaning against the wall by the front door. "To the cages, Batgirl."

She followed his line of sight and chuckled. "Yeah. I just got back a little bit ago, showered, and changed into this. If I had known you were coming, I would've looked more presentable."

"Have you always been into sports?"

"Yes. I got tired of being the nerdy girl so I took up softball in junior high. After a while, I became the nerdy girl with the good pitching arm."

"Nerdy girl?"

"I was valedictorian in high school and graduated from college summa cum laude. Law school magna cum laude. And I always thought _Star Trek_ was pretty cool. Nerdy girl." She reached into the lower cabinet and pulled out her popcorn maker, a bag of unpopped kernels, and a small jug of oil. At his curious expression, she laughed. "Pretty fancy, eh?"

"Better than the microwave kind." Munch paused, thinking about their earlier conversation. Casey could have been detailing his own academic history, and he'd seen every episode of _Star Trek_ ever created. Twice. "Any collegiate sports?"

"Uh..." She laughed. "No. Not exactly."

"What?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course."

She started up the popcorn machine, and it began to whir and cackle loudly. Then she leaned across the counter, inches from him. "It wasn't collegiate, but ... I took up competitive figure skating."

For a moment, he thought the machine had masked her words. "Figure skating? Like Tanya Harding breaking kneecaps figure skating?"

"Well, I don't think I broke anybody's kneecaps, but yeah."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I never got better than third place in a competition, and I quit before going to law school, but." She gave a self-effacing shrug.

"Figure skating," he repeated. "You still practice?"

"No. I'm so uncoordinated and ungraceful, I'd probably fall before I even reached the ice. I don't know how I did it all those years ago. I'm such a klutz."

He smiled. "I can see the headlines now. 'Local attorney gives up license, joins Ice Capades'."

"Yeah. Can you picture me in one of those skimpy outfits?"

Actually, he could -- quite vividly. He looked away with a nervous chuckle, fixing his attention on the bowl of candy. Staring at a package of Raisinettes wasn't nearly as enjoyable as staring at Casey Novak, skimpy outfit or not, but he was worried his emotions might somehow be readable in his eyes. He cursed his lack of self-restraint.

The popcorn inside the machine popped in the silence like firecrackers. He knew she was watching him, and he forced himself to look up. "What is it that you're not telling me?" she asked at last.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not blind, John. The last couple of days, you've looked at me like you're holding something back. And not something good, either." She folded her arms across her chest. "Is it about Martin Leonard?"

He opened his mouth, trying to put his thoughts into words. "It's about the man who killed Marianne Woodward. If that's Martin Leonard, then yes."

"What about him?"

He briefly explained Dr. Huang's profile of the murderer. "If Huang's right, and Leonard or whoever knows that you were the one who tipped him off to the police, you could be in danger."

"Don't you think that's something I should know?"

"I didn't want to worry you, Casey." She looked at the floor. "I figured Leonard wouldn't try something at the courthouse, and when you're not there or at your office, you're at the station or at home, and I--"

"Is that why you've been calling me? To check up on me?"

"No, not..." He sighed inwardly. "I should've told you sooner, but I knew you'd never agree to any sort of police protection, and that would've been my recommendation, warranted or not. You're tougher and smarter than most civilians I know, you wouldn't do something stupid." _I would_, he thought, _but not you_. Another sigh. "You're right; I should've told you. I'm sorry."

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for caring about what happens to me."

He opened his mouth again to speak but couldn't find the words. How could he possibly convey the depth of his feelings for her without sounding ridiculous? They hadn't even gotten close until Judge Woodward's rape. Was that enough time to feel the things he felt?

"Which movie do you want to watch first?"

It took him a moment to realize that she had spoken. "Oh, uh ... how about _Abbott and Costello_?"

"_Abbott and Costello_ it is." She dumped the popcorn in a large bowl, sprinkled it with popcorn salt, and carried it to the living room. Munch put the DVD into her player and started the film. They dropped onto the couch almost simultaneously, each of them propping their right foot on the coffee table. They shared a look of amusement and a chuckle before setting the popcorn bowl between them.

And it was comfortable. He found himself smiling and even laughing. He never considered himself boring or unable to have a good time, but it had been so long since he'd done so that he'd forgotten what it was like. Sure, he'd go to the bar with Elliot, Olivia, and Fin but this ... this was different. This was _perfect_.

A kernel of popcorn went sailing in front of his face, and he looked at Casey. She stared innocently at the television, desperately trying to hide a wicked smirk. "You know, for a sports enthusiast, you don't have very good aim." She gave an exaggerated gasp, and he threw a piece into her mouth. "Now _that's_ good aim. Maybe I should join your softball team."

With a laugh, she tossed a small handful of popcorn at him, and it tumbled down his shirt. "This is completely different than softball."

"I should hope so," he replied, flicking a kernel at her chin. She turned her head at the last minute, and it lodged itself into her hair. She pawed at it but only succeeded in getting it more stuck.

"Wet hair and popcorn -- bad combination."

"Sorry." He pulled it out carefully then smoothed out the strand of hair he had tousled. Casey leaned into his touch and closed her eyes. She was able to drown out everything -- the sounds from the television, the death of Marianne Woodward, the disappearance of Martin Leonard -- and focus only on Munch. His finger traced the path of her jawbone, dipping her chin and drawing her face closer to his. She could feel the warm skittering of his breath on her lips, could sense his hesitation and yearning. His nose nuzzled against hers as if he was giving her one last chance to pull away. She wasn't going to take it.

Until there was a light knock on the door. Munch held his breath for a moment. Maybe they'd figure out that nobody was home and go away. The sound came again, harder this time. "If that's your neighbor again, I'll go fix the sink myself."

She chuckled. "I suspect it's the trick-or-treaters."

"It's not Halloween for another ... five and a half hours."

"Our building decided to have it a day early. That way the kids aren't high on sugar on a school night."

She disappeared from view, but he could hear her open the door and 'oooh' at the kids who were begging for a handout. Munch looked upward at whatever gods were trying to thwart his attempt at romance and sighed. "Yeah, I get it..." He joined her, staring down the three children that had run up before she had a chance to close the door. Casey smiled at him and handed him the bowl of candy.

"Trick or treat," the little blonde princess said, her 'tr' sounding more like 'tw'.

The cowboy next to her frowned. "Hey, mister, where's your costume?"

"I _am_ in costume," Munch replied as he dug through the bowl for enough sugar to make them leave.

"What are you supposed to be?" the ninja asked. "Old?"

With a fake smile, he dropped a few candy bars into their pumpkin-shaped buckets. "Happy Halloween." He glanced up and down the hallway to make sure there were no other children around and closed the door. "How long until you turn off the proverbial porch light?"

"Another two hours."

"Earlier if you run out of candy, right?" He shoved a handful of chocolate bars in his coat pocket. She raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "For Elliot's kids."

"Right..."

* * *

Despite the frequent pauses to deal with trick-or-treaters, they made it through both films by midnight, curled together under a quilt. When they were finished, Casey cleaned the popcorn bowl and Munch picked up the kernels from the floor and couch. He made a quick call to the precinct and learned that Martin Leonard still hadn't shown up. Probably humiliated by his party's withdrawal of his nomination, the officer at the station told him. _Maybe._

Casey listened to his side of the conversation while loading the dishwasher. The evening had been a wonderful distraction from the case, but now she felt edgy again. Where had Leonard gone? He wasn't at the courthouse, at home, or even at his cousin's apartment. What reason did he have to just disappear? Embarrassment? That didn't sound like the Martin Leonard she knew. Then again, she never really knew him.

"It's getting late," he said. "You need anything before I go?"

She shook her head. "Thank you for coming. It was a nice surprise."

"Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine. Freezing though." She checked the thermostat and frowned. The settings hadn't changed. "What's wrong with this thing?"

"Maybe you left a window open."

"N--" Casey's heart skipped a beat, and she walked to her bedroom. The window was open even wider than it was when she had gotten home from the batting cages. She thought back to earlier. Did she close and lock the window? She couldn't imagine leaving it open, and if she did in fact close it, then...

"I could stay."

She spun around. Munch stood in the doorway, worry lining his face. How did he always know how she felt? "Yeah," she said after a moment and gestured to the room across the hall. "I have a futon in my office. More comfortable than the living room couch." Before she followed him, she closed and locked the window then drew the curtains.

Her office consisted of the futon in the couch position, an L-shaped desk with a laptop computer attached to a small portable printer, and several bookshelves with everything ranging from works of fiction to legal dictionaries. They adjusted the futon so it lay flat and added a pillow and the quilt from the couch.

"Is that going to be okay?" she asked.

"I'm versatile."

"Thanks for staying."

"It's not a problem."

Without warning, she kissed him. He barely had time to respond before she backed up and into the door frame. She chuckled nervously, turned around, and disappeared into her own room, shutting the door behind her. Munch remained frozen in place, lips tingling and heart pounding, until a smile appeared on his face. With the shake of his head and a silent cheer, he closed the door.

* * *

Casey awoke with a start, eyes adjusting to the darkness of her bedroom. The dream she had been having dissipated quickly, and she couldn't remember what it was about or why it had woken her up. Her pulse was too fast to go back to sleep now, so she climbed out of bed and headed to the kitchen. The door to her office was still shut. _At least someone's getting some sleep._

As she passed the front door, she glanced at it out of habit. A glimmer of light caught her eye, and she stopped.

The chain lock had been cut.

Someone was in the apartment.

Her body stiffened, every nerve on alert. Who was it? Was he still here? If so, where? She scanned the kitchen, the only part of the apartment she could see in her current position. There was no movement, no shadow.

Casey strained to hear something, anything, but it was eerily silent. Before she could turn around, she heard -- no, _felt_ -- a presence behind her. Her brain propelled her into action. In one fluid motion, she ducked forward, grabbed her bat, and swung around, making a noise akin to a war cry. The bat made contact with a sickening _crack_ and was followed by a groan.

_Please don't let that be John..._ She reached for the light switch but was tackled to the ground. Her head bumped the floor, and for a moment she was too stunned to react. When a pair of hands circled her throat and began to squeeze, the haze lifted and she clawed at her attacker. He slapped her, and she took the opportunity to thrust her fist upward in the general vicinity of his face. She connected with his jaw. Her knuckles burned at the contact, and she hoped he was in more pain than she was.

Light flooded the room, accompanied by the click of a gun hammer. "Get up. Now."

Casey's heart sang at Munch's words but sank when she looked into the face of her attacker: Martin Leonard.

_End part eight_


	9. Chapter 9 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 9/14  
by perfectvelvet

"You all right?"

At first, Casey didn't hear him. She sat on the cot in the crib, staring at a speck on the floor, hugging herself. She was still wearing the sweat pants and t-shirt that she had slept in. Her hair was a mess from her visit with the crime scene photographer, who had pulled the strands in different directions to reveal her scalp and get a better shot of the bump on the back of her head.

"Casey?"

She looked up to see Cragen, a kind smile on his face. "Yeah."

"You okay?"

"Yeah." She cleared her throat and touched the purplish bruises on her skin. Her whole neck ached, inside and out. The damage to her esophagus was minimal, but it made her cough, and swallowing was painful. She sipped her glass of water and coughed again. "If John hadn't been there, I don't know what I would've done. Leonard was ... strong."

"We're going to need to take your statement. You feeling up to it?"

"I'm fine, Captain, I just..." She sighed. "Before she died, Judge Woodward told me that she was glad I was going to be the one prosecuting her case. Now I won't be."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Maybe not in the courtroom, but you fought for her -- and you won. If that brings a conviction, then you did exactly what she wanted you to do."

She rubbed her neck, her mind wandering for a moment. "How's the interrogation going?"

"They're just about to start."

Fin tapped on the wall to get their attention. "Whenever you're ready, Casey."

She smoothed down her hair and let out a sigh. The clock on the wall read 4:27. They'd go through the night's events step by step then do it again to see if there was anything she'd forgotten. Maybe a third time, just to be sure. Either way, it would take a couple of hours, and her chance of going back to sleep before sunrise was shot.

As if he could read her mind, he said, "I have coffee waiting for you."

* * *

Munch stood outside of the interrogation room and glared through the glass at Martin Leonard. The man didn't seem to be least bit concerned that he was under arrest for rape, murder, assault, breaking and entering, attempted murder, and whatever other charges Munch had spouted out after pulling him off of Casey. No, Leonard simply looked bored.

That didn't sit well with Munch.

Elliot and Olivia came around the corner. She smiled at him before putting on her poker face and walking into the interrogation room. Elliot stayed outside, hands in his pockets. They both remained silent for a moment.

"Look, John--" His sigh turned into a chuckle. "About this ... whatever it is between you and Casey?"

"Which is none of your business."

"You're right, and I don't want to know. Just be careful, okay?" He walked into the interrogation room where Olivia introduced him as her partner. "You're not going to call your attorney?"

"I am an attorney," Leonard said. "Detective Benson informed me of the multiple and, if I may say so, preposterous charges against me."

"So you're saying you're innocent?"

"Very much so."

Elliot folded his arms across his chest. "You didn't break into Casey Novak's apartment?"

"No."

"You didn't assault Casey Novak?"

Leonard sighed. "Not intentionally."

"Who did you intend to assault?"

"The man I saw enter her apartment."

Olivia raised an eyebrow. "You saw someone enter her apartment?"

"Yes. I was leaving Cynthia's, and I saw a man -- or at least I presumed it was a man, I suppose it could've been a woman. Regardless, this individual had some kind of object in his hand. When he slipped inside, I became worried. Cynthia said she was concerned about people coming in the building without permission. So I went over to Ms. Novak's apartment. The door was unlocked, and I went inside."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"With the response times nowadays? She could've been burglarized or attacked or worse by the time you got there."

"But she _was_ attacked," Elliot said with a malicious grin. "By you."

"It was an honest mistake. I expected to encounter whoever had broken into her apartment, not her -- and certainly not with a baseball bat. You should see the bruise on my hip."

"Yeah? Well, you should see the bruise on her neck where you tried to choke the life out of her."

Olivia took over the interrogation, sitting casually across from Leonard while Elliot paced the room. "Did you rape Marianne Woodward?"

"Of course not."

"Did you murder her?"

"No."

"Then why does all the evidence point to you?"

He scoffed. "I'm a judge, Detective. I know all about forensics. I've seen juries convict criminals on forensic evidence alone -- a single hair, saliva, footprints. Get the right jury, it can be very persuasive. So if I raped and murdered Marianne, as you seem to believe I did, why would I leave behind that which would incriminate me?"

"If you know all about forensics, then you should know that it's almost impossible _not_ to leave evidence. Killers always leave a piece of themselves behind."

Leonard looked amused. "So what is it that I left behind?"

Elliot was more than happy to jump in. "All sorts of things. Fibers from the clothes you wore, cat hairs from your cousin's cat... Oh, and blood."

"Blood?" He actually laughed. "I'm stupid enough to leave blood behind?" Shaking his head, he stood. His tone lowered, and all humor disappeared from his face. "Go ahead, Detectives. Pluck a hair from my head. Swab the inside of my jaw. I'll even piss in a cup if you'd like. But I assure you, my DNA won't match whatever blood sample you have because I didn't kill Marianne."

On the other side of the two way mirror, Munch rubbed his eyes. Criminals who didn't have a strong educational background sometimes submitted to DNA tests, not realizing that they were often damning to them. _Leonard was well educated._ Criminals also concocted wild stories about where they were the night of the crime, why they weren't guilty, who actually committed the crime -- whatever they could to shift the police's suspicion onto someone else. _Leonard's story wasn't that far outside of the realm of believability._ So it was entirely possible that he was--

No. Leonard was guilty; Munch could sense it. He was a textbook sociopath: glib, arrogant, narcissistic. He planned Woodward's rape and murder, right down to the trial. Juries would see right through his lies, and he would be convicted.

The door opened, and Leonard stepped out. He looked at Munch, the tiniest hint of a satisfied smile on his face. "Keep going," Elliot said from behind him. The two of them walked away. Cragen passed them and approached Munch and Olivia.

"That was fast," the captain said.

"They're going to the lab," Olivia said. "We may already have his DNA, but if he submits to the test himself, there's no way he can refute it if it comes back a match."

"If?" Munch repeated.

Cragen ignored him and looked at Olivia. "I take it he didn't confess."

"He denied everything, even breaking into Casey's apartment."

"How does he explain that one?"

"He said he saw someone else break in and went to intervene. He did admit to assaulting her, though it was a mistake. He thought he was attacking the burglar." She looked at Munch. "Did you notice anything strange last night?"

"You believe that load of crap?"

"No, but if that's what he's going to tell the jury, we need to find a way to prove him wrong."

Munch shook his head. "No, nothing out of the ordinary." Casey's shocked expression when she saw the open window in her bedroom appeared in his mind. "Her bedroom window was open. She thought she had closed it."

"Thought she had closed it?"

"When she came home from the batting cages, the window was open. The lock had been broken, but the maintenance crew came by and fixed it. They left the window open, so she closed it -- or so she thought. When she went to bed, it was open again."

"Did you see her close it the second time?" Cragen asked.

"Yes, and lock it."

"Was the window open after Leonard was arrested?"

He frowned at the captain's question. "The only people in that apartment were myself, Casey, and Leonard. There was no one else."

"Did you check?"

Munch bit back the comment he wanted to say and swallowed it. No doubt it would fester inside and create an ulcer. "No. I believed that apprehending the suspect was more important than a window ... sir."

His eyes still on Munch, Cragen said, "Olivia, go over to Casey's apartment, bring her back a change of clothes. CSU's already there, but make sure they dust the window for prints." When he was sure she was gone, he spoke again. "John, what are you doing?"

"Getting reprimanded."

"No. With Casey."

"Nothing," Munch replied, sounding like a child who'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"You're sure about that? Because for all intents and purposes, she's a co-worker. You still have to work together. Someday down the line, she'll have to question you during a trial, and if you think the defense will turn a blind eye to your relationship, you're mistaken."

His usually logical self hadn't even considered that, which proved to him how far gone he really was. Defense attorneys loved to shift the focus from their deadbeat client to the witness, and something like this would definitely bring out their claws. He wouldn't do that to Casey, have her humiliated in public. He looked at Cragen and took a breath. "What do you want me to do?"

Surprisingly, Cragen shrugged. "You do what you have to do, John, but my recommendation would be to make it work."

* * *

"I think that's everything. Sign on the line."

Casey opened her eyes. She wondered if she had fallen asleep while Fin had typed her statement. She took the blue pen and scribbled her name where indicated. It hardly looked like her signature, and her last name had an extra loop in the V. Nowak. She giggled. With barely three hours of sleep, everything was funny.

"You did good, Casey. Olivia brought you some clothes; they're up in the crib. Go get some sleep."

"What's wrong with my apartment?"

"They're fingerprinting it."

"Oh." That seemed strange, but she wasn't sure why. "Okay." She went upstairs alone and laid down on the cot. Her body screamed from exhaustion, but her mind tormented her. Had she done okay on her statement? Did she forget anything? What did Leonard say about the attack? Did he call a lawyer? Submit to a blood test? Confess?

She groaned at her endless questions and rolled onto her side. Munch stood in the doorway, mouth opened as if he was about to greet her. She grinned at him, propping herself up with an elbow. "Hey."

"Hi," he replied. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

He knelt beside her cot, examining the bruises on her neck. "Did you see a doctor about this?"

"Yes. They'll fade soon, so the lab techs took some pictures. For evidence."

His eyes were glazed; either he was going to break down or he was about to fall asleep. "Casey, I'm so sorry. I--"

"Don't. If you hadn't been there, we might not be having this conversation."

"Case--"

She silenced him with a deep kiss, her fatigue giving her the courage to do what she should've done long ago. His hesitancy melted almost instantly, and when she pulled back, he had a silly, dazed look on his face. "Thank you," she said, resting her head on the pillow. The last thing she remembered before falling asleep was his soft reply.

"You're welcome."

* * *

"Okay, I know you're all exhausted, but let's go over this." Cragen closed his office door, shutting Elliot, Olivia, and Fin inside with him.

"Shouldn't Munch be with us?" Fin asked.

"At the moment, Munch is a witness and not a detective. Casey Novak is a witness and not an attorney. Is that clear?" Nobody said a word. "Good. Now, you took Leonard down to the lab for bloodwork and photos?"

Elliot nodded. "Then I dropped him off at the holding cell, which he wasn't too thrilled about. He wants his arraignment first thing Monday morning and his trial as soon thereafter as possible."

"No plea bargaining?"

"Not a chance."

"What's his story?" Fin asked Elliot.

"He admitted to strangling Casey but that it was accidental, that he was trying to be a good samaritan, blah blah blah. As far as the rape and murder of Marianne Woodward, he says he's innocent."

Cragen put his hands on his hips and let out a breath. "What do you think?"

"Oh, he's definitely guilty," Elliot said. Fin nodded. Olivia remained still.

"Olivia?" Cragen prompted. "You disagree?"

She collected her thoughts. "If he's guilty, why would he submit to a DNA test?"

"Because he's an arrogant prick who thinks he can get away with anything," her partner said as if it were obvious.

"He said it himself. He's a judge. He's seen juries convict on DNA evidence. If he knew his DNA would match the DNA we found at the scene, I don't think he'd consent."

"So you believe his story about noticing someone breaking into Casey's apartment?" Elliot began shaking his head. "Come on, Liv, that's the mother of all lies."

"But what if it isn't? Her chain lock had been cut with a pair of bolt cutters. Leonard didn't have anything like that on him. He wasn't wearing gloves or a hat or a disguise. He didn't take any of the precautions to protect his identity like he did when he raped and killed Woodward. It's almost as if an entirely different person committed those crimes. Organized versus disorganized."

"I just spent the last couple of hours staring at Casey's bruises," Fin said. "The marks on her neck match the ones on Woodward."

"Maybe he didn't feel he needed a disguise," Elliot suggested. "We don't know what happened when she was killed; maybe he wasn't wearing a disguise then either."

A thought came to mind. "You were there when CSU took photographs of Leonard, right? Did you notice anything unusual?"

"Uh ... you know that thing they say about guys with big feet? Not true about guys with big heads."

She wasn't amused. "Fork marks, Elliot. Did you notice any fork marks in his skin?"

"I didn't scrutinize over every square inch of his body. Besides, if he'd used a bit of Neosporin, those things would be healed by now."

Before Olivia had a chance to respond, Cragen held up his hands. "Okay, we seem to have some differences. Let's just agree to disagree for now and look at the evidence. How is the lab doing on the blood from the fork?"

"Still being processed," Fin replied, "but it should be any time now."

"And the cat hairs?"

Elliot stuffed his hands in his pockets and sighed, his frustration burning under his skin. "Also being processed."

"Benson, Stabler. At eight-thirty, I want you at Cynthia Gray's apartment. Be cordial. Ask her about last night: was her cousin there, what time did he leave, et cetera. If you happen to notice any bolt cutters lying about, make a note of it, but this is not a search. You got that?" They both nodded. "Fin, you're going to coordinate with the lab, see if we can get those results any sooner. Then you're going to talk to Casey and find us a new attorney. If the blood matches Leonard's DNA, we've got ourselves a case. But if it doesn't, then we've still got a murderer on the loose."

* * *

Fin found his partner sitting on the floor of the crib, watching Casey sleep. His suit jacket had been delicately placed over her torso as a makeshift blanket. The situation reminded Fin of a vigil over the sick or dying. Or the end scene from _Sleeping Beauty_.

"Hey, John."

His voice must have sounded like a foghorn in the silence because Munch jerked upright in alarm. When he realized who it was, he relaxed and even managed to smile. "Hey."

"She looks pretty wiped out. So do you. Why don't you get some sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"Nothing's going to happen to her here."

Munch didn't look convinced, turning his head to check on Casey.

"You've got it bad, don't you?" He didn't expect a verbal response; the look on Munch's face was answer enough. Fin chuckled. "Let me know when she wakes up."

"Sure."

"Take it easy, partner." He left Munch to resume his vigil once more.

* * *

"So if you were on the jury, you'd find Leonard not guilty."

Olivia rolled her eyes at her partner. They'd argued the entire way to Cynthia Gray's apartment, and she was getting tired of it. "I didn't say I'd find him not guilty, I said I'd have some doubts if we had to present our case with the evidence we have right now."

"What about the blood and the cat hairs?"

"Neither are conclusive at this time. Maybe they match, maybe they don't."

"They'll match."

"And if they don't?"

He knocked on the door to Cynthia's apartment. "They will." When Leonard's cousin opened the door, he gave her his most winning smile. "Hello, Ms. Gray."

"Detective Stabler." Her own smile was pleasant but wary. "How can I help you?"

"Would it be all right if we talked inside?"

Once they had entered and introductions were made, Elliot told her about Casey's attack, leaving out the fact that her cousin had been the perpetrator. Cynthia's expression went from confused to shocked to saddened. "I told the super that something like this would happen. It's really gone downhill lately. Is Casey going to be all right?"

"She's holding up."

"And the man who did it, did you catch him?"

"We did, and he confessed to attacking her."

Relief washed over her features, and she closed her eyes. "Thank God."

"Were you home last night?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Was your cousin here?"

"Martin?" She frowned. "Yes, but ... what does that have to do with Casey's attack?" Realization touched her face. "He did it?" she squeaked.

"He said he was trying to thwart a burglar," Olivia said softly. "Did you hear anything out of the ordinary?"

"No. I went to bed early; Martin was going to sleep on the couch. With all the reporters stalking him, he doesn't have any privacy." She held her chin high. "Did you catch the man who broke into her apartment?"

"No." Elliot chose his next words carefully. "Was your cousin behaving strangely last night?"

"I know what you're trying to do, Detective, but Martin is not a violent man. He may have attacked Casey, but I'm sure it was a mistake." Her body stiffened. "I'd like you to leave now."

They were no sooner in the hallway when the door was slammed on them. Olivia sighed. "Didn't happen to notice any bolt cutters, did you?"

"No." Elliot's cell phone rang, and he answered it. "Stabler." He listened to the voice on the other end. "Yeah ... Okay, thanks." Another pause, and he disconnected the call. "That was the lab."

"The DNA results?" He nodded, and she felt her chest tighten. "Was it a match to Leonard's DNA?"

"Yes." But instead of smiling, Elliot's mood seemed to darken. "Let's go nail that bastard to the wall."

* * *

_Veselka  
144 2nd Avenue  
Monday, November 29_

Getting someone to handle the case was easier said than done, but in the end, the DA agreed to loan out novice attorney Jeremiah Ashland. Not only did he attract the ladies with his youthful features and shaggy brown hair, his voice commanded the attention of everyone within earshot, and he was absolutely mesmerizing to watch and listen to in the courtroom. Ashland had laughed out loud when Cragen told him who the defendant was, but he was swayed by the facts -- and that if he won, he'd be the next Johnnie Cochran.

Munch didn't particularly care for him, but at least he got them an indictment.

Today was the day Martin Leonard's trial was to commence. Leonard had used his position as a judge and the apparent sympathy of the legal community to push the case forward, and they had achieved a trial date in record time. The press milled outside the courthouse in the gently falling snow, waiting for an attorney or a witness or anybody to arrive. Court wasn't due to start for another hour and a half, so the chances of someone showing up now, particularly since they couldn't get inside the building, were slim. Munch was in a twenty-four-hour Ukranian diner a mile away, having a cup of coffee and potato pancakes. Elliot and Olivia were supposed to meet him in fifteen minutes, Fin in twenty, and Casey in five. Ashland would show up sooner or later; Munch hoped later.

The tinkling of the bell over the door caught his attention, and he saw Casey coming toward him, unbuttoning her long coat to reveal an aquamarine-colored pantsuit. With her hair bundled carefully atop her head, she looked very professional. He stood to greet her. "Did you manage to escape from the press?"

"Barely," she replied, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before sitting across from him. "I think one of them snuck in and spent the night in my hallway. Once I threatened him with my bat, I was home free."

"That was a joke, right?"

She shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe." Then she winked and laughed, and Munch grinned again.

Seeing her -- alone -- after nearly a month of court appearances and press questions made his heart beat a little bit faster. They'd talked on the phone, even met for lunch a few times with the other detectives, but this was the first time in a long time that they'd been alone together, face to face. And for some reason, he couldn't think of anything to say.

The waitress came and took her order, and when she was gone, Casey leaned back in the booth and studied him. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." His head screamed at him for saying something so foolish.

"Well, I don't think I am." She took a deep breath. "It's been a while since I've had to testify."

"You did great at the grand jury trial."

"No cross."

"True." In the actual trial, Leonard would get to examine her directly. Ashland had spoken with all of the witnesses, Munch himself included, and posed sample questions to them. But how close the mock questions were to the actual ones remained to be seen. "You'll be fine, Casey."

"I hope so. I just--"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, what?"

He could see the pain in her eyes when she finally spoke. "Martin Leonard was my friend, John. We played softball together, went to the batting cages together, the practice fields. I can't count the number of hours I spent alone with him, and now he's on trial for murdering a woman I respected and admired, someone we both worked with. And I sent him to the wolves."

"He did that to himself. You were the only one wise enough to catch him."

She shook her head and blinked. For a moment, he thought she might cry. "I guess I'm just having a hard time dealing with that."

"I don't blame you. He fooled everyone. But if it's any consolation, I'll be there for the whole trial if you need me."

She looked at him for what felt like an eternity. "You know, John ... I've really missed you."

Their fingers intertwined in the center of the table, and he briefly shut his eyes, savoring the contact. It had been too long. "With this trial and the press--"

"I know. Unless we want to find ourselves on the front page of the paper, we can't. It's okay."

"No, it's not okay. I need you, Casey." The words tumbled out before he realized what he was saying, and he froze in place when it clicked. Her grip tightened, as if she was hanging on his next sentence. "And if that's front page news, then ... the public must be really bored." He frowned. "I have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Neither do I," she replied with a grin. "But I liked the part where you told me you needed me."

Jeremiah Ashland chose that exact moment to enter the diner, expelling a loud sigh. "I hate snow." The flakes on his navy blue jacket melted in the warmth of the building, and he sighed again. He pulled off his wool cap and ran a hand through his hair. He noticed Munch and Casey at a booth halfway through the restaurant and walked toward them. "Good morning."

"Hi, Jay," Casey greeted as she moved from her seat and slid into the empty place next to Munch. Ashland and his oversized briefcase took up the other side. Munch took a sip of his coffee in lieu of saying hello.

"Are we ready?" He glanced at each of them in turn. "You both look very presentable. We'll be spending today and maybe part of tomorrow with jury selection, but it's good that you make an appearance."

"Have you ever prosecuted a murder case?" Munch asked.

The question caught him off guard. "Yeah."

"How many?"

Ashland cleared his throat. "Three. As second chair."

"Why don't you have a second chair now?"

"Are you kidding? No attorney wants to touch this case. You're prosecuting one of the most well-known judges in the city."

"Who also happens to be a criminal. Your office should want to put him behind bars. They--" Under the table, Casey squeezed his knee. He knew what that meant, and he took a breath before continuing. "I'm sure you'll do a fine job, Mr. Ashland."

"Jay."

"Jay." He glanced at Casey with a quirked eyebrow before turning back to Ashland. The attorney's eyes were focused on a cute dyed-blond waitress up at the counter.

"Excuse me a minute," he said, straightening his tie and clearing his throat.

Munch watched him strut over to the counter and lay on the charm. "I don't like him."

"I know, but he's right. No one wanted to take this case."

"You would've taken this case."

Her eyes sparked with a fire he hadn't seen since Woodward's rape. "Yeah. I would've taken this case."

He sighed, gaze locked with hers. His heart seemed to trip over itself whenever he looked into her eyes, and he wanted to reach out, to hold and kiss her, to tell her how he felt and that it wasn't going to change. But as usual, Fate laughed at him, manifesting herself as the jingling of the diner bell. Elliot and Olivia walked in, talking quietly to each other. They found Munch and Casey in the growing breakfast crowd and headed over.

"We're not interrupting anything, are we?" Elliot asked with a smirk.

Munch made a show of checking his watch. "No, you're right on time. Ashland's practicing his opening speech with that blonde waitress. Feel free to dump his stuff on the floor."

Olivia glanced in that direction. "Must be a pretty dull opening speech. She looks like she's about to fall asleep."

"Did I say opening speech? I meant opening line."

Elliot chuckled. "Ladies of the jury, let me ask you something: what's your sign?"

"Yeah, I fell for that once," Olivia said as she slid into the booth.

"There's something incredibly sexy about a man that can spout out legal jargon," Casey agreed.

"Really?" Munch exchanged a confused glance with Elliot. "Did Kathy marry you because you could speak legalese?"

"Nope. She married me because I look good in uniform."

Casey and Olivia nodded simultaneously, oohing and ahhing about men in uniform. Ashland returned to the table, frustration creasing his youthful face. "Well, the mood at this table is jubilant, considering it's the first day of trial." He waved Casey over and slid in next to her, sandwiching her between himself and Munch.

"She turn you down, tiger?" Munch asked.

He managed a pitiful nod. "It wouldn't have worked out anyway. I'm not sure she speaks much English."

"There are other fish in the sea."

"Maybe you should try someone in your line of work," Casey suggested.

He turned to her, eyebrows raised. "Really? Well..." He noticed the glare that Munch was giving him and sighed. "I heard Elizabeth's single again."

Fin entered the diner, completing their group. He looked at the full table and pulled up a nearby chair. "What'd I miss?"

"Nothing," Ashland said, eliciting a few chuckles from the others. "Now we've got ... forty-five minutes before trial begins. Jury selection will probably take all day, so testimony will start tomorrow. You've all been subpoenaed by both sides -- except you, Fin."

He grinned. "I'm here for moral support."

"And that's good. It's likely that you'll all have to take the stand twice, once for us and once for the Defense. We go first. We already discussed the order of testimony. Anybody have any questions?"

No one spoke, and the only sounds audible were the clanking of dishes in the kitchen and the typical murmurs of conversation from other patrons. Casey broke the silence with a soft, "So this is it." Munch gripped her hand under the table, and she squeezed back.

"This is it," Ashland confirmed. He held up his glass of orange juice. "To victory."

The rest of the group followed his example, glasses clinking over the center of the table. "To victory."

_End of part nine_


	10. Chapter 10 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

A/N: Sorry for the long delay in posting! I couldn't get the document manager to upload my chapters, and it was incredibly frustrating! Hopefully I'll have the rest of the fic for you in short order.

_The Price of Justice_ 10/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Tuesday, November 30_

It was as if the entire city had appeared for the first day of testimony in Martin Leonard's trial. Weaving through the press that mobbed outside and inside the courthouse had been difficult to begin with but nearly impossible once they had been recognized. Ashland plowed through the crowd, shouting "I'll make a statement at the end of the day" to the reporters.

The courtroom itself wasn't much better. Reporters had camped out in the back three rows with their video cameras, microphones and still cameras. Ashland's motion to keep the courtroom free of the press was denied, as Leonard had passionately requested that the public be allowed to watch the proceedings and witness 'justice at work'. There was also a closed circuit camera projecting the trial into other areas of the building for those who couldn't find a seat in the actual courtroom.

Munch and Casey took a place directly behind the bar. He had taken the week off to be with her during the trial, even though she had insisted he use his personal leave to take a much needed vacation. He glanced around the courtroom to see if he could spot any familiar faces. A few chairs to his right was a solemn-looking Carly Summers, dressed in black. He nodded a greeting to her, and she returned the gesture. Sitting behind Leonard's table was Cynthia Gray and another woman, probably a caretaker.

"Hey." Elliot sat down in the empty chair beside Casey. "Olivia and Fin went back to answer a call, but I'm going to relieve her after my testimony. Is Ashland still planning on having her go today?"

Casey nodded. "Assuming Leonard doesn't have any particularly lengthy cross-examinations."

Like Munch, Elliot had had some reservations about Jeremiah Ashland prosecuting the case against Martin Leonard. He was young and relatively inexperienced. However, as Casey had promised, Ashland's opening statement was captivating, and he seemed more knowledgable than anyone had given him credit for. Elliot had been called to testify first, and Ashland's smooth questioning made him feel at ease.

"Now you and your partner, Detective Benson, interviewed Marianne Woodward in her chambers the morning of October eighteenth, is that correct?"

Elliot nodded. "That's correct."

"And you filled out a report regarding this discussion?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did Ms. Woodward tell you?"

Elliot could feel the jury's eyes on him, anticipating his response. "That on the evening of October seventeenth, upon returning home from dinner with her sister, she was raped."

"Could you tell the jury the details of that attack?"

"She was in her bedroom, and the perpetrator jumped out of the closet. He gagged her with a washcloth, blindfolded her, tied her to the bedposts, and proceeded to rape her."

"Did he say anything to her, Detective?"

"According to Ms. Woodward, he quoted a line from _The A-Team_ prior to assaulting her. 'I love it when a plan comes together.'"

Ashland raised an eyebrow as if this information was somehow new to him. "And then what happened?"

"Her housekeeper, Elena Petrova, came home early which spooked the perpetrator. Ms. Woodward managed to get Ms. Petrova's attention by banging on the headboard. Ms. Petrova untied her and took her to Mount Sinai."

"What happened to the perpetrator?"

"He ran off without being spotted."

"But he was spotted, wasn't he? By a security camera?"

"That's correct."

"Could you identify the perpetrator after reviewing the security tapes?"

"No. He was wearing what looked like a black cape, and his face was hidden by a hat."

"What happened then?"

In the audience, Casey shivered. Her heart was pounding, her skin was clammy, and she was sure her hands would tremble if she wasn't digging her fingers into her thigh. Her mind was filled with all of the times she had been alone with Leonard: at the batting cages, at the café down from the courthouse, in chambers. As she saw him now, sitting alone at the defense table with a curious expression on his face, she wondered how many people she knew had actually killed someone.

A hand covered hers, and she sighed. John -- her strength. He laced his fingers with hers, and she squeezed him tightly. This relationship was perfect for her. _He_ was perfect for her. He provided the right balance of humor and companionship to keep her wanting more. No matter what anyone said, his cynicism disappeared when they were together, and he became the sweetest, most considerate person on the planet. She never knew men like that existed, but here one was, with her.

Elliot was explaining the details of the investigation, all of the steps they took to locate a suspect. Casey knew what was coming next.

"And how did you arrive at the defendant, Martin Leonard, being a suspect?"

"The assistant district attorney who handles our cases, Casey Novak, made that determination."

"What did she tell you?"

Leonard rose casually from his seat. "I'd like to object, Your Honor. Hearsay."

"Detective Stabler is testifying to what information is in his reports, which includes Ms. Novak's statements," Ashland said.

Judge Petrovsky gave a brief nod. "I'll allow it. Detective, you may answer the question."

"Ms. Novak informed us that she had been in Martin Leonard's chambers to discuss scheduling, and he said, 'I love it when a plan comes together'."

Ashland raised his eyebrows again. "Isn't that what the rapist told Marianne Woodward before he assaulted her?"

"Yes."

The line of questioning continued with their investigation of Woodward's murder scene and the discovery of the blood on the fork. They briefly discussed other suspects the police had considered and why they were dismissed. When Elliot stepped down from the witness box, the jury had a complete history of the Woodward rape/murder from the investigator standpoint.

"Why didn't Leonard cross-examine him?" Munch whispered.

Casey shook her head. It didn't make much sense; she had picked out one or two points that, if she had been a defense attorney, she would have brought up during cross, but Leonard had simply waved Elliot off without a single question. "I don't know. He subpoenaed him, so he has the option of calling him as his own witness, but..." _What do you have planned?_

Libby Shaw, Woodward's personal physician, was called next. Ashland questioned her regarding the rape kit that she performed after the attack. She explained all of her findings in delicate detail, and Casey was impressed by the woman's professionalism. Definitely a plaintiff-oriented physician.

Leonard was not as forgiving this time. He stood and approached her with a smug expression on his face. "Let's run through this again, if we may, Doctor Shaw. Your examination of Marianne Woodward showed..." He began counting off on his fingers. "Bruising?"

"Yes."

"Tears of the vaginal tissue?"

"Yes."

"Some vaginal bleeding?"

"Yes."

He glanced at the jury before facing her directly. "Well, isn't that possible during all sexual encounters?"

Shaw blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Are bruises, tears of the vaginal tissue, and vaginal bleeding possible occurrences after any sexual encounter?"

"To an extent, yes."

"So even consensual sex can create those kinds of injuries?"

"That's correct."

To his credit, he kept his expression neutral as he formed his next question. "To a reasonable degree of medical certainty, Doctor, could Marianne Woodward's injuries have been caused during a consensual sexual encounter?"

"Considering the state her housekeeper found her in--"

"My question is relating to her injuries only, Doctor. Could her injuries have been caused during a consensual sexual encounter? Yes or no?"

"Yes," she agreed, "but--"

"Thank you, Doctor."

Ashland rose from his seat. "Redirect, Your Honor?" Petrovsky nodded. "Doctor Shaw, did you find Marianne Woodward to be sincere in her complaints and in her history of what happened that night?"

"Yes. I've known her for several years, and I'd never seen her that shaken before."

"Thank you, Doctor." Ashland tossed a 'so there' glance at Leonard as he sat back down.

Judge Petrovsky checked the clock on the wall. "We will break for lunch now. Court will resume at one-thirty." She banged her gavel and everyone rose. The jury filed out first, followed by the judge and then the remainder of the courtroom.

Opening statements and two testimonies, and it was almost noon. Casey looked down and realized that she was still holding Munch's hand, and he hadn't made any move to let go. She smiled slightly. "You want to get some lunch?"

"Sure," he replied, "if you think we can eat anywhere without the press."

Ashland had heard their conversation and turned toward them. "My sister sent lunch for all of us to the office. We can eat there in peace." He glanced at Leonard, who was halfway out of the courtroom and already grandstanding in front of the press. "And discuss round two."

* * *

After numerous repetitions of 'no comment', Ashland, Munch, and Casey made it to the DA's office where Elliot and Olivia joined them. Jenny Ashland had prepared a picnic-esque lunch of ham sandwiches and potato salad. They took it to one of the conference rooms and began to eat.

"So what did I miss?" Elliot asked. "Some of us didn't take sick leave to attend trial."

"Personal leave," Munch clarified.

"Uh huh."

Ashland ignored their banter. He was in trial mode: no jokes, no interruptions. "Elliot's testimony was very good. It gave the jury a history of the entire case. I am a little concerned that there was no cross-examination."

Elliot raised his fork and tapped the air with it. "Yeah, what was that about? I expected him to grill me about proper procedure or evidence collection or something."

"I saw a couple of points he could've raised," Casey said.

"I don't know why he didn't examine Elliot," Ashland admitted, "and that's a problem."

"Leonard seemed too laid back for someone on trial for rape and murder," Munch said. "I watched him during some of the questioning, and he looked almost ... amused."

Olivia shook her head. "Something's wrong then."

"It's his word against the evidence," Elliot said.

"And the jury's smart enough to figure that out," Casey added.

Munch tipped his head to the side to look at Casey. "If he keeps muddying the waters like he did with Doctor Shaw, they may not."

"I would've said the same thing."

"With more finesse, I'm sure. Leonard is like a bull in a china shop."

"Still--"

"Whoa, wait a minute." Elliot held his hands up. "I left after my testimony. What did he do to Doctor Shaw?"

Ashland released a heavy sigh. "He got her to admit that Judge Woodward's injuries from the rape could've been caused by consensual sex."

Olivia's eyes widened. "And you allowed that?"

"It's a valid question. It just happens to help him more than us."

She shook her head but didn't argue. "So am I the next witness?"

"I'm going to squeeze ME Warner in when we get back, but you're after that. It makes more sense anyway. Elliot wrote up most of the rape reports, and you handled the murder ones. I'll be asking the same questions I did during prep, and if Leonard doesn't cross examine you, you have nothing to worry about."

* * *

Olivia sat in the witness box, keeping her expression pleasant but neutral. Her own testimony went flawlessly, but now Leonard was peering over some documents in preparation for an all-out attack.

So much for having nothing to worry about.

As he had said, Ashland had called Melinda Warner first and asked her about her autopsy report and her view of the scene. She had the most amazing ability to make a murder sound horrific without adding too much gore in her details. The jury was both impressed and disgusted. However, when Leonard stood up for cross, they snapped to attention.

"Doctor Warner, did you get a chance to view Doctor Shaw's notes from Ms. Woodward's alleged rape?"

His questions started out innocently, but even Warner knew better. "Yes, I did."

"And do you have an opinion as to the degree of violence involved in the rape?"

She frowned slightly. "I'm not sure I understand your question."

"You testified that Marianne Woodward was strangled, most likely into unconsciousness, and then stabbed thirteen times. Does that seem extreme to you?"

"I've seen worse."

"But it wasn't the thirteenth stab that killed her. Some were done post-mortem. Correct?"

"That's correct."

"So Ms. Woodward's murderer continued to stab her after she was already dead."

"Correct."

"Now turning to the rape, Doctor Shaw testified that those injuries were caused by consensual sex."

"Objection," Ashland called out. "I believe a review of the transcript would show that Doctor Shaw testified that the rape injuries _could_ have been caused by consensual sex."

Leonard held up a hand. "I beg your pardon. Doctor Shaw testified that the injuries could have been caused by consensual sex. You saw the report. Do you agree?"

Warner bobbed her head in consideration. "It's possible."

"Detective Stabler testified that their squad believed the rapist and the murderer to be the same person. So I ask you, Doctor, to a reasonable degree of medical certainty, is the man who so savagely murdered Marianne Woodward the same man who so gently raped her?"

Ashland jumped to his feet amidst the clamoring of the audience and the banging of the gavel. "Objection!"

"Withdrawn." Leonard smiled. "I have no further questions."

His question had incensed Olivia, and even though it was withdrawn, the implication was burned into the minds of the jurors. Gentle rape -- two words that didn't even belong in the same sentence, much less the same breath. If Leonard's intent was to get the world to hate him, it was working like a charm.

Olivia's own testimony had helped her focus on the case at hand and not Leonard's blatant disrespect. But as Leonard approached her for cross, like a shark heading toward a bleeding swimmer, she had a feeling that she'd be struggling to keep her head above water.

"Detective Benson," Leonard began with his usual air of amusement, "I have had the opportunity to view all of your reports filed in conjunction with the investigation into the rape and murder of Marianne Woodward, and there are a few statements made by you that I find particularly interesting." He handed her a copy of one of her reports that had been marked as a trial exhibit. "This has already been entered into evidence. It is an addendum report to one filed by your partner, Detective Stabler. It is dated October twenty-sixth. Could you read the highlighted portion for the jury please?"

There was only one addendum report she had filed regarding the Woodward case, and when she accepted the paper, her fears were confirmed. Not this... Her lips trembled, and she wanted to voice an objection of her own.

"Detective?" he prompted.

She wished he'd wipe that damn smirk off his face. She caught Casey's eye and saw the confusion that laid there. Olivia cleared her throat. "'I think a serious investigation into Martin Leonard would be premature. Casey Novak's assertion that he raped Marianne Woodward is purely circumstantial with no basis in fact, although'--"

"Just the highlighted part, Detective."

_...although we can't dismiss Leonard as a suspect at this stage._ His strategy was becoming clear. Cast enough doubt on himself and the jury would acquit him. She wasn't going to let that happen.

"So you had doubts about Ms. Novak's accusation that I had raped Marianne Woodward."

"No," she replied.

Leonard frowned at her. "But didn't you just say her assertion 'is purely circumstantial with no basis in fact'?"

"That was taken out of context."

"It means you either believed her or you didn't. So which is it?"

She looked into the audience again. Casey's expression had turned neutral. "We never dismiss potential suspects without a full investigation."

"Did you believe Ms. Novak's accusation? Yes or no, Detective."

"If I had been in her situation, I would have been suspicious of you as well. So yes, I believed her."

He stared at her for a moment, and she held his gaze. _Not the answer you expected, was it?_ "Did you launch a full investigation into your next suspect, Daniel Groth?"

"Yes, we did."

"And why did you determine that he didn't rape or kill Marianne Woodward?"

"You mean aside from the fact that it was your DNA we found at the scene?"

Leonard chuckled, a response she hadn't anticipated. "Yes, aside from that."

"He had an alibi."

"Who?"

"His step-brother, Alex Dumas."

"Did you follow up on this alibi? Check to make sure they were where they said they were, if there were any witnesses, those types of things?"

"They said they were together, watching a movie."

"Did you ask them what movie, what channel?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Her chest tightened. "We had no reason to believe either of them were lying."

"Then would it surprise you, Detective, if I told you that Daniel Groth doesn't have a step-brother?"

The soft gasps from the spectators sounded like a full-scale marching band in her ears. Judge Petrovsky banged her gavel anyway, and the whispers died down.

Leonard took a few steps toward the jury then back toward the witness box. He folded his hands in front of him, not even attempting to hide the smile that curved his lips upward. "Why were you so quick to believe his alibi, Detective?"

Munch and Casey were frowning at her, and Ashland was leaning halfway across the table in anticipation. Olivia wet her lips carefully.

"Why didn't you follow up on Daniel Groth's alibi?"

She swallowed, but it did nothing to moisten her throat. Elliot was back at the precinct, but she wished he was in the courtroom. She hadn't included Groth's homosexuality in her report. But how did Leonard know about that? If she didn't say it, would he?

With a sigh, he turned to Petrovsky. "Your Honor, please compel the witness to answer the question."

"Detective Benson, please answer the question."

"I can't," she said.

Petrovsky looked down from her lofty position. "Detective, if you don't answer the question, I will have to hold you in comtempt of court."

Ashland was staring at her, clearly exasperated. Munch and Casey both looked concerned. Even Carly Summers's scowl had been replaced by confusion. Olivia shook her head.

"Very well," Petrovsky said. "Bailiff, please escort Detective Benson from the courtroom. We'll take a ten minute recess at this time."

* * *

"She's _where_?" Elliot pulled the receiver away from his ear and looked at it for a moment before putting it back. "In jail?"

On the other end, Casey sighed. "_She refused to answer a question about Daniel Groth, so Judge Petrovsky held her in contempt. This is a big deal. What the hell was so secretive that she would do that?_"

"Get her out of there, Casey."

"_I can't, Elliot. Don't you get it? Petrovsky slapped her with both civil and criminal contempt. She can pay a fine for the criminal charge, but civil isn't like that. The only way out of there is to purge herself of contempt. To answer the question._"

He exhaled. "Cragen's not gonna like this."

"_Cragen may be the least of her problems. Ashland's about to have a heart attack. He went down to the holding cell to try to talk her out of it._"

"He's wasting his breath."

"_Then you talk to her. Elliot, we're like lambs going out to the slaughter._"

"Okay, okay. I'll go down there, but I can't promise anything." He hung up the phone and rubbed his forehead. "Dammit, Liv."

* * *

Olivia stared at the ceiling of her holding cell, fingers tapping out a nameless tune on the wall. It was late, probably after midnight. She'd had numerous visitors: Ashland, Elliot, Casey, even Cragen. They hadn't changed her mind.

Leonard's DNA matched the blood from the fork. The cat hairs in Woodward's bed matched those belonging to Cynthia Gray's cat. Leonard raped and killed Woodward. His line of questioning was meant to cast doubt on his guilt, regardless of the evidence. It only took one. One juror could change the entire outcome of the case, and he was trying his best to find one.

The officer on duty came by and unlocked the door to her cell. "You're free to go, Detective. You can pick up your things on your way out."

"What?" She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. "Who--" Daniel Groth appeared beside the officer, an annoyed expression on his face.

"You did a very stupid thing, Detective Benson." His frown gave way to a small smile. "And I thank you for that."

When they were out of the building, she grabbed his forearm and turned him toward her. "How did you manage this?"

"News report said you'd been jailed for contempt. Then Alex told me what question you had refused to answer." Groth shook his head. "I know Lena Petrovsky pretty well, so I called her up in the middle of the night, and I told her the truth."

"About you and Alex?"

"Yeah."

"And she let me out?"

"Well, yes and no. You still have to purge yourself, but she'll allow it _in camera_."

"What about posting bond?"

"It's been taken care of." When she offered to reimburse him, he waved his hand in dismissal. "If I had been forthcoming about my sexual orientation back when Annie accused me of rape, this may not have happened. But thank you for trusting me. You've renewed my faith in the NYPD, Detective Benson."

* * *

"So you were with Ms. Novak when she was attacked by the defendant, is that correct?"

Munch nodded. "That's correct."

"And where were you?"

"I was in her home office, asleep."

"You weren't sleeping in the same bed as her?"

"I wasn't even sleeping in the same room as her."

"What is your relationship with Ms. Novak?"

He caught Casey's eye and considered the possible responses. "We're co-workers, friends."

"You're not involved in a sexual relationship with her?"

"No."

"Oh, come on, Detective. She's brilliant, gorgeous, talented, _and_ she likes you back. What more do you need?"

Munch tried his best to keep a straight face but laughter won out. "He's not going to ask me that, is he?"

"I don't think Ashland thinks that highly of me," Casey replied, sitting on the edge of her desk. They'd met early Wednesday morning to prepare for Munch's testimony which was scheduled to go before lunch. Ashland was hoping to redeem the case -- and his reputation with it -- and he demanded that everyone answer every question regardless of the consequences. She'd been grilling him for probably longer than his testimony would last, and the tediousness was wearing on both of them. "Better answer the question, Detective."

"In all honesty, Counselor, I can't remember the question. But I do have the perfect answer."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

He had intended for it to be a soft kiss, one to show his affection and a view of things to come, but then his hands were in her hair and her arms were around his waist, and his original plan fizzled from memory. He could taste a mixture of butter and coffee from their quiet breakfast as he explored her mouth. His heart thudded against his rib cage as if it was trying to escape. Why was it that, everytime he was with her, logic and reasoning seemed to fall to the wayside? Moreover, why did he care? When he finally pulled back, he saw a look in her eyes that he hadn't seen in ... well, entirely too long.

She laughed a little then gave him that smile again. "That was, uh ... yeah."

"Good answer?"

"The People rest."

He lazily traced his finger along her hairline. "So what's the verdict? Does the jury decide in our favor?"

"I think..." Casey pressed her palms flat against his chest and met his gaze. "I think this could be the last case you'll ever have to try."

The door to her office swung open, and Ashland's familiar sigh disrupted the silence. "This doesn't look like trial prep."

"Just practicing my diversion tactic," Munch said. "I plan on kissing Leonard in the middle of cross."

"Well, that'll certainly get us more press attention than we need. Olivia was all over the news last night _and_ this morning. She was sprung from jail in the middle of the night."

"She was?" Casey asked. "By whom?"

"I figured it was one of you strong-arming Petrovsky until I read the log. It was Daniel Groth. And that, my friends, looks pretty suspicious. In fact, we've got a hearing regarding it in about fifteen minutes."

Munch resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Whatever Olivia did or didn't do, it's a dead issue now. She's out of jail."

"Don't you get it? Olivia made it look like we have something to hide. Leonard is laughing at us because his plan is working. We need to turn this around and fast." Ashland continued to glare. "Now -- are you ready for your testimony, or were you too busy practicing your big diversion tactic?"

Casey held up both hands and stood between the two of them. "We don't have time for this. Jay, you'd better get to your hearing." She looked at him, and he scoffed before leaving her office. "And you--"

"I'm sorry," Munch said unconvincingly, "but he's so--"

"Right," she replied. "He's so right. We're losing favor with the jury. Jay couldn't even comment to the press yesterday because all they wanted to talk about was Olivia's arrest. Whatever she was hiding, Leonard knew -- and it wasn't that Groth didn't have a step-brother. He's pushing the limits because he can. He's the most dangerous type of criminal: one with a deep understanding of the law and how to circumvent it. Don't underestimate him."

* * *

"Please state your name for the record."

"John Munch."

Every trial where Munch had been called to testify was roughly the same. Same types of questions, same answers, with a little twist depending on the facts. It was easy. Today, however, he wondered if all the other times he'd testified was to prepare him for this day. The questions were still the same, his answers the same, but Leonard's wolfish expression as he scribbled down notes was unsettling.

"Tell us about the night of October thirtieth, Detective. In your statement, you said that you were at Casey Novak's apartment, correct?"

He turned his attention back to Ashland. "That's correct."

"What were you doing?"

"I had brought over some Halloween-themed movies to watch while she handed out candy to the trick-or-treaters. We watched those and then went to sleep. Separately."

"Where were you sleeping in relation to Ms. Novak?"

"Across the hall in her home office. She was in her bedroom."

Ashland looked at his hands for a moment. Munch wondered if he had his questions written on his palm. "What is your relationship with Ms. Novak, Detective?"

"We work together. We see each other casually outside of work." He tried to make it sound nonchalant but was sure he had failed when he saw Casey cover her smile with her hand.

"So why did you spend the night at her apartment?"

"She had a broken lock on a window which had been repaired. It was closed before my arrival, but when as I was leaving, it was open again, so I offered to stay."

Ashland began to pace slowly in front of him. "According to your statement, you were asleep when you heard Ms. Novak yell. Could you explain to the jury the circumstances surrounding this?"

"As you said, I was asleep. I heard her make a loud ... grunt, I suppose would be the best description. The kind of sound you hear players make during a tennis match before they swing. At the time, I wasn't sure what was happening, so I came out of the office. Her bedroom door was open, and she wasn't inside. I continued through her apartment where I found her being attacked. I withdrew my weapon and aimed. Then I turned on the light and told whoever it was to get off of her."

"And who was it that was attacking Ms. Novak?"

"The defendant and pseudo-attorney, Martin Leonard."

Even Ashland had trouble biting back a chuckle at that comment. "What happened after that?"

"I made an arrest and had him taken to the station for questioning."

"Thank you, Detective. Your witness."

Leonard began his thoughtful approach, a movement which he had perfected since yesterday. Munch wouldn't have been surprised if he practiced in front of a mirror. "Detective Munch ... a window? You spent the night with Ms. Novak because of an open window?"

"Well, this is New York City."

"So she was afraid?"

"Concerned would be more appropriate."

He cracked a grin. "Well, did you look under her bed or in her closet?"

"No, the boogeyman was still across the hall at his cousin's apartment at the time." Casey shot him a warning look. He hoped that the quick return glance conveyed his frustration.

"Tell me, Detective, is it customary to spend the night at the residences of citizens who are concerned about an open window?"

"I didn't spend the night at a detective. I did it as a friend."

"Just a friend? Or has your relationship progressed to a different stage?"

"As a friend," Munch repeated.

"Still, you had your weapon. I distinctly remember it being pointed at my head. Do you often carry your weapon with you when you're off duty?"

"I had been at work prior to going to Ms. Novak's apartment," he explained. "I didn't go home in between."

"But you did have time to go to the video store."

"It's on the way."

"Okay." Leonard paused for a moment, looking at the ground. "Are you having sex with Ms. Novak?"

"Objection," Ashland called. "Asked and answered."

"I didn't ask that," Leonard said. "I asked if their relationship had progressed beyond the 'friend' stage. Sex is an entirely different situation. You can have sex with friends, lovers, prostitutes."

"_Objection_!" Ashland's face turned bright red. "Your Honor, I demand a new trial. The jury has been--"

"That's preposterous," Leonard said over him. "I was merely saying--"

"--beyond the scope of questioning--"

"--not implying that Ms. Novak--"

"--unsubstantiated allegations--"

"--a little absurd that I would even refer--"

"--calling an officer of the court--"

"--a prostitute!" Their simultaneous shout was accented by a loud bang from Petrovsky's gavel. Half of the audience and all of the jurors jumped in their seats.

"Counselors, my chambers, _now_." Petrovsky stood ramrod straight and, with a flurry of her robes, led Ashland and Leonard to the private door in the back of the courtroom. When they were gone, the room erupted into a cacophony. Several reporters ran to their counterparts outside, a few others furiously dialed their editors on their cell phones, and one broke into their regular programming with a live report.

Munch remained in the witness box but looked at Casey. Her eyes were so wide that he could see the white around her irises, but otherwise she seemed fine, even calm. A hollow feeling settled deep in his chest. She was anything but fine, and he knew it. And it was all his fault.

Petrovsky appeared a few moments later, though she looked even more furious than she did when they left. Ashland and Leonard followed obediently, tails tucked between their legs. She sat behind the bench and sighed. "The jury will disregard all stated objections and we will continue with the last question posed to the witness. Miss Reporter, please read back Mr. Leonard's question."

The court reporter rolled back her tape. "Question: Are you having sex with Ms. Novak?"

Munch glared at Leonard. "Answer: No."

* * *

"Ms. Novak, can we get a statement?"

"Ms. Novak, how do you feel about being called a prostitute?"

"Ms. Novak--"

Casey blinked rapidly as she was assaulted by a barrage of flash bulbs and questions. Ashland grabbed her arm and pulled her through the crowd, shoving people out of the way. Munch trailed behind them silently.

Ashland's grip seemed to tighten on her, but he didn't say anything until the three of them were in her office. Then he released her, and his light blue eyes turned dark and angry. "We are going to lose this trial. You realize that, don't you?"

Casey scowled. "Get over yourself, Jay."

"I never should have agreed to take this."

"Because it's making you look bad? Rape and murder cases aren't about the attorney, they aren't about who looks better in court or who has the better closing argument. They're about the victim. You're here to see that justice is brought to Marianne Woodward. If you can't handle that, then you don't deserve to be here."

He stood in front of her and spoke in a low, clipped voice. "You can keep this job, Novak. I don't want it. But this is _my_ case. If you want to make a fool of yourself in open court at the expense of _him_," he stabbed a finger in Munch's direction, "do it on your own time. I, personally, am tired of looking like a babysitter who can't control the kids."

"Asshole," she muttered when he was gone.

"He's right, you know?"

She frowned at him. "If you think we're going to lose this case, then--"

"No. About us. I don't think we should see each other, Casey."

She felt like she had been kicked in the stomach, that all the wind had been knocked out of her and she couldn't breathe. Hot tears stung her eyes, a mixture of anger and despair. "So that's it then?" she demanded. "Leonard picks at your reputation, calls your girlfriend a whore, and you go running. I thought you didn't care about what other people think."

"Dammit, Casey, I don't care about my reputation; I care about yours!" He sucked in a breath, saw her blatant expression of surprise, and realized once again what a blind, lovesick fool he was. "As I sat up there, listening to Leonard berate you, I realized that I wanted to do two things. First, I wanted to hold you. And second, I wanted to kill him." He half-smiled. "Not sure I could get my hands around his neck though. It's roughly the same diameter as his head." She didn't even blink, and he sighed. "Look, I just think that if we lay low for a while, nobody will even remember and we can ... pick up where we left off."

"John, I'll admit I was a little surprised when Leonard said that. It was tactless, but it was deliberate. He knew it would create a stir. But I've been called worse -- in court and out. His was a roundabout comment. We all knew the intent, but he never came out and said it directly about me."

"But the implication--"

"--was just that. An implication. The jury was told to disregard it, so it won't have any bearing on their decision."

"You can't just rewind their brains and make them forget."

"Oh, I hope they don't. Because when this is all over, they'll know that he was grasping at nothing in an attempt to make himself look good." She grew quiet for a moment. "But I can't do it without you. I don't want to do it without you."

"And I don't want to do it without you either, but I don't know if I'll be able to control myself during your examination."

"I'll be fine." She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. "_We'll_ be fine."

He detected a slight hesitation in her voice, and fear squeezed at him. He was going to lose her if he didn't say something. "Casey." She looked up. "I'm not very good at this, but I'm going to try so just ... wait until I'm finished." Her brow quirked, but she nodded. "I've told you about my past. My list of exes is longer than most guys' rap sheets. Those women, they just didn't get it. Didn't get me. You do. I don't know why. I don't know if I ever will. But for the first time in a long time, I'm..."

"Happy," she said softly.

"Terrified," he corrected. "I'm terrified. I don't want to screw this up." He kissed her forehead. "And yes, I'm happy."

"If it's any consolation, I'm scared, too. I didn't expect this or plan this, and I never thought I'd date anyone from the squad."

A puzzled look appeared but quickly gave way to something akin to glee. "So ... we're dating."

She laughed. "What do you think?" Before he could ask another question, she pulled him into a kiss. "Look, John, if you want our relationship to work, there's only one thing you have to do and that's try."

He tried not to smile, but she was making it difficult. "I will if you will."

She drew an X over her heart with her finger. "Promise."

"Me, too." He kissed her cheek as he pulled away. "I'll go get us some lunch, okay?"

"Sure." He was halfway out the door when she called his name, and he turned around. She looked serious all of the sudden, and he braced himself out of habit. "I don't know if I ever thanked you for that night when Leonard attacked me. You saved my life."

"No, Casey," he said with a faint smile. "You saved mine."

_End of part ten_


	11. Chapter 11 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 11/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Wednesday, December 1_

"The People call Casey Novak."

The courtroom was as silent as a morgue as she walked up to the witness box and was sworn in. No one coughed or whispered, no chairs squeaked from movement. Casey sat down, wiped a wrinkle from her skirt, and looked at Ashland. He was back in trial mode, very professional and friendly, nothing like he was in her office at lunch.

She knew exactly what to expect, but she wasn't ready. All the early questions were easy: name, address, education, profession, years practicing. But when he began asking her about Martin Leonard, her chest tightened. God, it was like reliving the moment over again, and when the bile rose in her throat, she thought she might.

"So after he quoted the line from _The A-Team_, tell us what happened."

Casey shook her head repeatedly. "I--I don't remember much. I thought I was going to faint. I managed to make it to the restroom before I vomited."

"Why such a strong reaction?"

"Because a man I respected and admired had used the same quote that a rapist had used before assaulting Judge Woodward."

"How were you so sure that he did it?"

"The look he gave me." Her own voice echoed in her ears. "That sick, twisted smile that I've seen on so many rapists."

"Objection," Leonard said. "I think it would be a bit premature to call me a rapist, considering I haven't been convicted yet."

Both Ashland and Petrovsky gave him a stern look, most likely related to his earlier 'prostitute' remark. She overruled his objection and allowed the prosecutor to proceed.

Eventually, the questions drifted to the night he attacked her, and Ashland was very cautious whenever Munch's name came up. She knew he didn't like him. "How did you feel when you walked into your bedroom and saw the window was open again?"

"Unsettled. I was certain I had closed it earlier, so when it was open, it made me a little nervous."

"So you asked Detective Munch to stay with you that night?"

"No, he offered."

"Did you feel uncomfortable about that?"

"No."

"Because you have a personal relationship with him?"

"I have a personal relationship with all of the detectives," she said, hoping she didn't sound defensive. "It wouldn't have mattered if it was one of the others who had stopped by that night. If they would have offered, I would have accepted."

"After you went to your room for the night, did you check for any disturbances to your personal items?"

"Yes. I even checked the closet in case anyone was hiding in there." _Like he had been at Marianne's apartment._

"So you're certain that you were alone in the apartment, aside from Detective Munch."

"Yes."

Ashland nodded, giving the jury a moment to ponder over the information before continuing. "Tell us what happened after you woke up, Ms. Novak."

"I couldn't fall back asleep, so I went to the kitchen. The light from the window glinted off the door lock, and I noticed the chain had been cut. I felt a presence behind me, so I grabbed my baseball bat, swung around, and hit somebody. Then he pushed me to the ground, and my head hit the floor. A pair of hands circled my neck and started squeezing." Her throat felt constricted as she told the story, and she took a sip of the water beside her. "I scratched at his face, and he slapped me so I punched him. Then Detective Munch appeared and saved my life." She saw Munch smile in the audience, but she forced herself to stay focused on the trial.

Ashland revealed several large posterboards with blown-up photographs of the bruises on her neck and the bump on the back of her head. Casey stared at them too. Was that really her? They looked so much worse than she recalled. It served as a reminder of how close he'd been to choking her to death.

"Ms. Novak," Ashland continued, "after Detective Munch turned on the lights, did you see the face of the man who attacked you?"

"Yes."

"Is that man in the courtroom today?"

"Yes."

"Could you please identify that man?"

She nodded. "It was the defendant, Martin Leonard."

"Thank you, Ms. Novak. I have no further questions."

When Leonard stood up, Petrovsky said, "Counsel, I would remind you that Ms. Novak is an officer of the court. Please keep your antics to a minimum."

He bowed stiffly. "Yes, Your Honor." Casey tried not to smile. "Ms. Novak, you knew about the alleged rapist's so-called catch phrase fairly early on in this investigation, is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"And how did you come into this knowledge?"

"I was given a copy of the investigative report to review."

"And is this normal, ordinary procedure?"

Casey knew what he was doing. Making an investigation look improper was a favorite practice of defense attorneys. "I can't answer on behalf of the NYPD, but as far as the DA's office is concerned, there's nothing wrong with it."

"So you get access to whatever confidential police records you choose?"

"No. I'm their attorney. I offer legal advice when requested."

"And what legal advice did they request when they gave you a copy of Marianne Woodward's file?" He didn't wait for an answer and instead withdrew his own question. "If you hadn't seen the file and therefore didn't know about the alleged rapist's catch phrase, would you have suspected me as her rapist?"

Casey opened her mouth to answer then closed it. She paused for a moment. "I don't know."

"Your testimony, the testimony of Detectives Stabler, Benson, and Munch -- all of it implies that you assumed I was the rapist because I quoted a line from _The A-Team_, the same line used by Marianne Woodward's alleged rapist. Was that your only reason for making such an assumption?"

"At that time--"

"Yes, Ms. Novak, at that time."

She resisted the urge to glare at him. "Yes."

"So based off of a popular phrase from a nineteen eighties television program, you assumed I was a rapist?"

Ashland stood up, as if he'd been waiting for that moment all along. "Objection. Asked and answered."

"Withdrawn." Leonard paced a few steps in front of the witness box before staring at Casey. It was a powerful gaze, but she refused to look away. "On the night of October thirtieth, when I allegedly broke into your apartment and attacked you--"

"Nothing alleged about it," she interrupted. "You did attack me."

He chuckled. "You are correct about the attack but not the break-in. Allow me to rephrase that. On the night of October thirtieth, when I allegedly broke into your apartment and not-so-allegedly attacked you, were you afraid, Ms. Novak?"

"Afraid?" She hesitated. Where was he going with this? "Yes."

"But I didn't kill you."

"No."

"And why do you suppose that is?"

"Because Detective Munch pointed a gun at your head."

There were a few unrestrained chuckles from the audience, and Leonard joined them. "Yes, I suppose that's true. But my real question is this: what proof do you have that my intention was to kill you, as opposed to incapacitate you? In my statement to the police, I said that I thought you were an intruder."

"There was only one intruder in my apartment that night, and that was you."

"Oh? Tell me, Ms. Novak, was your window open or closed when I was arrested?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"It's a very simple question, really. Was your window open when I was arrested?"

"I don't--"

He returned to his desk and picked up three copies of a document. He handed one to Ashland. "Your Honor, I have this report filed by NYPD crime scene investigator Andrew Baker." He gave the second copy to Judge Petrovsky. "It was completed on October thirty-first and filed November seventh. Mr. Baker has already testified as to this report, and I would like to refer to it now."

"Any objections, Mr. Ashland?"

"No, Your Honor."

"You may continue, Mr. Leonard."

Leonard flipped to a dog-eared page of his own copy. "Ms. Novak, Investigator Baker was the chief investigator of your premises after the alleged break-in and not-so-alleged attack. Have you viewed his report?"

"No."

"Then allow me to read a sentence or two if I may. Well, first, how many windows do you have in your bedroom?"

"One."

"And that is the window which was open on October thirtieth, the one with the lock that had been broken which your building maintenance crew had repaired?"

"Yes."

"And this window is on which wall?"

"The east wall."

"Upon examining your bedroom, Investigator Baker noted that -- quote -- 'the window on the east wall of the room is open approximately eight inches' -- end quote." He placed the copy back on the desk. "Did you open the window, Ms. Novak?"

"No."

"Did Detective Munch open the window?"

"Not to my knowledge."

He gave her an all-too-pleasant smile. "Then who did?"

* * *

"_That's_ his argument?" Olivia rolled her eyes. "The case of the mysteriously opening window?"

Casey sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. "And then, when I didn't have an answer for who opened the window, he asked, 'Well, if Marianne's rapist could stay hidden from the housekeeper and sneak out without being seen, what's to say he didn't hide in your apartment until you left and then snuck out the window?'" A tidal wave of stress and alcohol rushed over her brain, and she closed her eyes until the moment of nausea passed.

"He really doesn't plan on winning, does he?"

"That's just it, Olivia. He's cast enough doubt on the circumstances that I can't say at least one member of the jury won't be pursuaded by it. Tara Hill from the lab is scheduled to testify tomorrow regarding the DNA results and cat hair matches, but if it was over right now..."

"Give yourself a little credit, Casey. Munch said you did great, that you were more level-headed than the rest of us."

"Years of practice," she said with a much-needed chuckle. She had been on the stand for so long that Petrovsky let them out early since there wouldn't be enough time to call another witness. "Jay is on the verge of mutiny. Says my relationship with John is ... ruining everything." She finished the last of her beer and ordered another one.

Olivia tilted her head to the side and looked at her. "Do you think it is?"

"It's a non-issue. That's Leonard's strategy: to bring in a bunch of non-issues and try to make them issues. As long as it's not a felony or a crime of moral turpentine, it doesn't matter."

"Turpitude."

"What?"

"A crime of moral turpitude. You said turpentine."

"I did?" Casey looked at the beer bottle that had been placed in front of her. "Maybe I should cut myself off." She slid the bottle over to Olivia and rested her head on the counter. "I wanted to prosecute this case so badly. Now I just want it to be over."

She rubbed Casey's back then gave her a couple of pats. "Come on, honey, I'll take you home."

* * *

_District Attorney's Office  
Manhattan, New York  
Thursday, December 2_

"Casey."

Arthur Branch was speaking much too loudly, Casey decided as she lifted her aching head and looked at her boss. He was glaring at her. "What's up?"

"What is the most popular morning radio program in New York City?" he asked, giving her an annoyed smile.

She tossed her hands up. "I give up."

"It's that ridiculous shock jock, Scorpion Jack."

"Feel the sting," she said, quoting the show's catch phrase.

"And guess what he's stinging today?"

"The trial?"

Branch was about to explode, his jowl shaking with the fury he struggled to contain. He lifted up his micro cassette recorder and pressed play. Scorpion Jack's perpetually whiny voice filled the air. "_Haven't seen too many hookers on the corners lately. Either the NYPD is doing its job, or the DA's office is hiring._" He clicked stop. "Did you get that the first time, or do I need to play it again?"

She shook her head. She hadn't expected Leonard's comment to get so out of hand. "I--"

"This is bad, Casey. Makes the DA's office look like fools."

"I'm sure the town prostitutes aren't happy about it either."

"You think this is funny? He just made a mockery out of the legal system."

"You forget who opened that can of worms -- and who that comment was directed toward in court." His defenses dropped at her comment, and she took the opportunity to walk around her desk and face him. "Once upon a time, Martin Leonard was a good judge and a good man, but now he's a rapist and a murderer. All of the evidence points toward him, and he knows it. He's using any excuse he can to make himself look less guilty. The jury _will_ convict him."

Branch was quiet for a few moments, but his scowl soon returned. "I'm sure your squad did their level best, but there's some doubt. Hell, I've known Martin Leonard for years. I just can't picture him doing something like this."

She sighed. She was so tired of defending herself and the trial that she shook her head and sat back at her desk. "I'll take care of Scorpion Jack. Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

He frowned again then turned to walk away. "You're in this deep, Casey." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "I just hope you can climb back out when it's over."

* * *

Some people thought working in a crime lab was fascinating, but Munch could see that the jury didn't include any of them. While Tara Hill was on the stand, describing the ins and outs of DNA profiling, the jurors were slowly losing interest. When Ashland began his final question with the words, "So in summary," their faces lit up, an end in sight.

"Thank you, Ms. Hill. Your witness."

Leonard's contemptuous smile returned. "You say the blood found on the fork at Marianne Woodward's apartment the night she was murdered and the blood I submitted upon my arrest matched?"

"That's correct."

"Was that an exact match?"

"Exact?"

"Yes, one hundred percent."

"No, but according to the standards set forth by our lab and the FBI, it was a match."

"But there could be another person out there who also matches according to those standards, am I correct?"

Tara looked somewhat nervous. "I suppose."

"Well, tell me, Ms. Hill, how accurate was your testing? For instance, one in ... a billion that you're correct?"

"Probably closer to one in a million."

"One in a million?" Leonard chuckled. "What's the population of New York City?"

Ashland rose. "Your Honor, Ms. Hill is a scientist, not a member of the U.S. Census Bureau. Is there a point to this line of questioning?"

"There is," Leonard said, "and if you'll let me finish, I'll get to it."

Petrovsky gave a small sigh. "Let's do it quickly then. Ms. Hill, you may answer the question."

"The population of New York City?" she repeated. "I don't know."

"Any estimate?"

"Uh ... six million?"

"If that's the case, and your match was only one in a million, then statistically there are five other people in this city alone that could have done it, correct?" She opened her mouth to answer, but he continued speaking. "And if there are six _billion_ people in the world, well ... your figures don't seem so accurate now, do they?" She made a tiny noise, and he interrupted, "No further questions."

"Redirect, Your Honor." Ashland rose, giving Tara a comforting smile. "Ms. Hill, when one takes into account the number of tests you've performed on this particular blood sample, your results, and the current standards for testing, does that increase the chances that Martin Leonard's DNA does, in fact, match the DNA from the blood found at the scene of Marianne Woodward's apartment the night she was murdered?"

"There is no doubt in my mind that it is his blood on the fork."

"Thank you, Ms. Hill." He waited until she had stepped down before speaking again. "Approach the bench, Your Honor?" Petrovsky waved he and Leonard forward.

"Good save," Munch muttered. "You notice he didn't question the cat hair?"

Casey wasn't paying attention; her eyes were fixed on a familiar-looking man a few rows back. Large nose, short black hair, a bit heavy... "I know him. I think..."

"The People call Frederick Tibideux to the stand."

The man Casey had been looking at stood, straightened his navy blue tie, and headed for the witness box. She raised an eyebrow. "I've seen him around my building. Oh, I know. Head of the maintenance crew."

Munch frowned. "He wasn't on the original witness disclosure, was he?"

"No. That's probably what they were talking to Judge Petrovsky about: calling of a non-disclosed witness." She turned her attention back to the trial.

"You are the head of the maintenance crew which is employed by the apartment complex where Casey Novak is a resident, is that correct?"

Tibideux nodded at Ashland's question. "Yes, sir."

"I have asked you to bring the logs from your repair visits with you, and I'd like them to be submitted into evidence at this time." He waited for the necessary procedures to be completed before continuing. "Could you please read the complaint that Ms. Novak made in late October regarding her apartment?"

He thumbed through the pages. "Uh, on October twenty-ninth, she reported ther her bedroom window lock was jammed in the unlock position and that with a gust of wind, the window would open spontaneously."

"Did you go to her apartment?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Uh, the next day, October thirtieth, a Saturday. Ms. Novak wasn't home at the time, but she gave us permission to enter when she wasn't there."

"Did you examine the lock on her bedroom window?"

"Yes."

"And what did you find?"

"Well, I went through the usual checks, tried a few different trade secrets if you will, and I got the actual lock unjammed but it still wouldn't stay locked. So I put in an order for a new window."

"So technically, her window was never fixed on October thirtieth?"

"No. Uh, correct."

"The lock remained broken?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. I have no further questions."

There was a hum of excitement in the courtroom, followed by the furious scribbling of the reporters in the back three rows. Casey felt John squeeze her hand, but she remained still. Leonard was a quick thinker, and she didn't want to get too comfortable with the fact that Tibideaux's testimony had just cast doubt on the escape-by-window theory.

As calm as ever, Leonard rose from his chair. "Mister Tibideaux, do you receive many calls from Ms. Novak?"

"No. She's pretty good at fixing things herself."

"Did you find it odd when you saw that your work for the day would involve going to her apartment?"

"I didn't think anything of it."

Ashland stood. "Your Honor, I have to object again. Is there even a purpose to this line of questioning?"

"I'm getting there," Leonard said, slightly annoyed.

"Overruled," Petrovsky said. "But please stay on track, Mister Leonard."

"Yes, Your Honor." Leonard took a breath. "Mister Tibideaux, when you examined the faulty locking mechanism to the window, did you notice any evidence of tampering?"

"No."

"When did you replace the window?"

"Uh..." He flipped through his work orders again. "November third."

"And did you ever notify Ms. Novak of your need to do so?"

"I didn't. Someone else may have, but it wasn't me."

"So she assumed you had repaired the window on October thirtieth when, in fact, you did not. Is that correct?"

Tibideaux suddenly looked guilty. "Yeah..."

"So for four days, anyone could have climbed the fire escape and gained access to her apartment?"

"No."

Leonard did a double take. "No?"

"She called again on Monday to say her window was still opening on its own. When I came to replace the window on Wednesday, I noticed that she had jimmied a wooden handle in place so the window couldn't open."

"How resourceful of her. No further questions."

* * *

Fin shoved the last of his hot dog into his mouth. "I'm still confused. Why does he care so much about this window?"

"Because he has nothing else going for him." Munch sighed, looking at his own uneaten hot dog. "You want this?"

"Yeah."

"Haven't had much of an appetite lately."

"Trial will do that to you," he said before taking a bite.

Munch didn't tell him that it had less to do with the trial and more to do with Casey. She had him wound up in knots. It was an unusual but not unpleasant feeling. It wasn't like him to lose control of his emotions. Then again, he wasn't sure he had control of them in the first place.

"Still don't get the window thing though. Suppose Leonard's story is true."

"Which it's not."

"Casey's apartment isn't that big," Fin continued, ignoring his partner. "She's got, what, that kitchenette thing off the living room, her bedroom, her office, and a bathroom. If some guy broke into her apartment, what's he gonna do? Steal the television, attack the resident. But there was no one in the living room, and Casey was alone in her bedroom. No one was in with you."

"I called for backup after I pulled Leonard off of her, and we didn't leave until there were police swarming her apartment and CSU had arrived. There was nobody else there, Fin."

He nodded a few times and finished off the hot dog. "So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Think you'll win?"

"I'll move out of the country if we lose. However..." Munch sighed in frustration. "For every good piece of evidence we have, Leonard finds something to counter it. I think we need a rehaul of the judicial process. Discovery rules stink."

"Everyone said he was a good attorney."

"He's more of a spinner than Marianne Woodward ever was." He paused. "I know that he's guilty, but..."

"What?"

"A guy gets stabbed with a fork, you'd expect some puncture marks in his skin or some scarring or healing indications, but--"

"Come on, John, you arrested him a week after he killed the judge. It was a superficial wound. Plenty of time to heal."

"Maybe." He glanced at his watch. Half an hour until trial resumed. "I'm going to head back, see if I can find Casey at her office."

"She's trying to work during all this?"

"No, a radio deejay tried to pull some stunt this morning. She's writing up a complaint or delivering a complaint or something."

"Or something?"

"I don't know. She mentioned it in passing, and I wasn't really listening."

Fin laughed. "The best way to finess a lady is to hang on every word she says. So far, your methods are questionable."

"I didn't have to finess her; I won her over with my good looks and boyish charm."

"Didn't realize Casey was blind."

"Jealous, Fin?"

"Nah. Lawyers aren't my type."

"No, I meant of my good looks and boyish charm."

Fin regarded him seriously for a moment. "Mmm ... no." He chuckled. "I'm going back to the precinct, though I'm going to save about half this paperwork for you."

"Can't wait."

"Hurry up, go get your woman."

"She'd slap you if she heard you say that."

"Yeah, yeah."

Munch stood up and walked away, his smile broadening with each step.

* * *

Thursday afternoon, Jack Smith left the radio studio where he was the host of the most popular morning show in the city, where he was Scorpion Jack instead of another nobody. There was a spring in his step which had appeared a few weeks ago. Nothing could touch him. The executives were so thrilled by his success, they let him push the envelope. That was fine by him.

Until now.

Thirty-seven pairs of high heels clicked toward him, led by a cute redhead with pouty lips and an expensive maroon suit. He knew her. He didn't know the other thirty-six women.

"Casey Novak! Hey, you want some air time? New York would love to hear from you." He chomped on his chewing gum and gave her the biggest grin he could, showing off his newly bleached teeth. God, he was amazing.

She flashed a smile of her own as an equally cute blonde flashed her badge -- Sheriff's Department? -- and handed him thirty-seven fat envelopes.

"Let me guess. You've finally started the official Scorpion Jack fan club?" He readjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder and fumbled with the first envelope. Novak kept grinning at him, like she had a secret.

"You've been served," she said. "Thirty-seven times."

"With what?" His cheery mood was fizzling. He finally got the subpoena and thick complaint out of the envelope and skimmed it. "Thirty-seven counts of slander? Who did I slander?"

Thirty-seven hands rose.

"How?"

Novak withdrew a micro cassette recorder and pressed play. His voice filled the air. "_Haven't seen too many hookers on the corners lately. Either the NYPD is doing its job, or the DA's office is hiring._"

Jack scoffed, then scoffed again, then did a little pirouette before giving one final disgusted scoff. "Are you-- Oh, come-- Haven't you ever heard of the First Amendment?"

"Slander doesn't count."

"How was _that_ harmless little comment slander?"

Novak continued smiling. She wasn't so cute anymore. "Francine?"

A disembodied voice said, "Fellow attorneys keep asking me which street corner I was on before coming to work for the DA's office. They call it a joke. I call it mental anguish."

"Ginger?"

He mouthed the name as the woman said, "Can't make any money. All the johns point and laugh, asking us when we're due in court. Talk about an insult -- uh, no offense. Anyway, I'm losing income on account of you."

"Marley?"

Another woman spoke up. "Defendant grabbed my ass in the courtroom, asked me how much for a blow job then wanted to know if we'd have enough time before he went to jail. Public humiliation."

"Bonita?"

Jack held up both hands, dropping a few envelopes in the process. "Okay, I get the point."

"Good. We'll see you in court." Like an army marching band, the women pivoted around and, shoes clicking rhythmically, walked away.

_End of part eleven_


	12. Chapter 12 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 12/14  
by perfectvelvet

The Special Victims Unit had no night staff, so unless one of the detectives was working overtime, the squadroom was both silent and dark. That wasn't the case Friday night.

Munch sat at his desk, working with the light from the nearby lamp. He rubbed his tired eyes before flipping to the next page, but his mind wandered from the words. The day's trial testimony had included the head of Leonard's political party, Elena Petrova, and Carly Summers. Things were looking better for the prosecution.

However, they were looking worse for Munch.

Now he found himself going through all of Woodward's past trials again, looking for any kind of connection. He'd created a file on his computer cross-referencing the people who lived and worked in Woodward's building with all rapists, murderers, and other criminals who had been convicted by Woodward. Once categorizing a name, he placed it in one of two columns: those who were still incarcerated and those who were on parole. Then he checked to see where the parolee was living, if they were meeting with their parole officer as instructed, or if they had simply disappeared. He'd just finished going through the most recent year when he heard footsteps.

"I was wondering where you were." Casey smiled at him. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

He looked at his cell display. It was blank. "Battery must've died." He started rummaging through the drawers for his charger.

"So what are you working on? Getting caught up?"

"Uh..." He pretended to focus intently on a drawer's content to buy himself some time to come up with an answer. Lying wasn't an option, but he wasn't sure how to tell her the truth. When he lifted his head and found her standing next to him, he realized he didn't have to. "Listen, Casey, it's not that I don't believe what you heard; it's just that--"

"John, you don't have to explain. You're a cop. You have to follow the evidence, investigate all angles. I work with what I have and what I know." She smiled again, but he knew it was fake. "It's pretty late, and I promised Olivia I'd check out her gym in the morning. I'll see you later." She began to walk away.

"I know that you're mad at me, but--"

"I'm not mad at you." She turned around, teetering on her heels. "I'm mad at me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm starting to believe him, too."

He didn't have to stare at her for long to see her resolve start to crack. It took even less time to cross the room and hug her. Her tension melted in his arms, and he kissed her forehead. "You know, as far as everyone else is concerned, the Woodward rape/murder is closed."

"Yeah," she whispered, backing away from his embrace. Her eyes shifted to his desk. "So you have her whole judicial career in that box."

"And I have the rest of her legal career in _that_ box." He pointed to one on the floor that was deeper and wider than the one on his desk. "People hold grudges for a long time."

"The trial will be over by the time you finish."

He shrugged. "Won't matter if he's convicted."

After a moment, Casey hauled the heavy box on the floor to the top of his desk. "Then we'd better get started."

"Hey, you have a boss of your own to answer to, and his name isn't Cragen. This isn't your responsibility."

"Yes, it is. I answer to one person, and that's the victim. Marianne Woodward wanted me to prosecute her rapist and to win. If Leonard didn't do it, then I need to find out who did. I'm doing this for her."

Somehow he expected that. With a sideways smile, he pointed to a stack in one corner of his desk. "You can work on the dockets from two-thousand two."

Casey was a faster typer, so she entered the information from the docket sheets onto the computer while Munch checked the criminal database for a current location. They stripped off their suit jackets and worked in bare feet for comfort. He made a fresh pot of coffee sometime around ten o'clock which kept them going for another couple of hours.

"You know..." Casey paused in thought. "We're missing something here."

He looked at the piles they had already gone through, and his heart sank. "What?"

"All of these cases, they're first timers."

"What do you mean? The criminals?"

"No, it's the first time the cases themselves have been tried in the criminal court. I haven't seen any that were kicked back by a successful appeal. It doesn't happen often, but I expected to see at least one."

Something clicked, and they looked at each other with growing excitement. "The original trial judge doesn't preside over the appeal, do they?"

"Nope."

"So it's possible..."

Casey nodded. "Martin Leonard could have presided over a case that Marianne Woodward heard after the successful appeal."

"Or vice versa."

"Maybe we're looking for a guy who was found guilty the first time around--"

"When Woodward heard the case," he interrupted.

"--but was found not guilty in Leonard's court. It's rare but not entirely impossible."

"There's a motive." He paused as his idea began to unravel. "But then why frame Leonard, the judge who told him he was free to go?"

"Maybe Leonard instigated the whole thing. He had a grudge against Marianne for stealing his JAASA idea and getting nominated as Justice, our newly freed convict has a grudge because she sentenced him."

"A match made in heaven."

"The original trial would have been very early in her career. Appeals take time, and she hasn't been a judge for that long."

He sighed. "Maybe that's why we don't have any cases that were remanded; she never did one."

"I don't know," Casey said with a yawn. "But I can't think about it tonight."

"I'll take you home."

"I live on the other side of Manhattan. I'll just call a cab."

"At one o'clock on a Saturday morning?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"I'm not going to let you take a cab home. What if something happened to you?"

"Nothing's happened to me in the last seven years or so."

"And I intend on not letting anything happen for the next seven years or so either. Come on."

"That sounds like commitment to me." His body tensed, and she chuckled. "I'm only kidding, John. Relax."

He hadn't been kidding, and the admission was both liberating and terrifying. It was official: he was completely out of his mind. "It is commitment. I'm commited to being your private bodyguard."

"Then you can protect me while I wait downstairs for a cab." She reached for the phone, but he slid his hand over hers, stopping her from picking up the receiver.

"A compromise then. You can sleep at my apartment." He gave her his trademark 'whatever' shrug, building up the wall between them again. Just when she'd torn half of it down...

"You'd have to take me home early in the morning, say ... five-thirty?"

"That's fine."

"I don't have an extra change of clothes."

"I'm sure I have something you can wear."

"You mean, you own more than suits?" she asked with a grin.

"Actually, I have a dress that would look spectacular with your hips. Looks terrible on me, though."

She laughed again. "All right, you win. Let's go."

* * *

Casey hurried toward the gym door, nearly slipping on some ice in her haste. She glanced at her watch as she rushed inside. Olivia was waiting for her by the front desk, already wearing shorts and a sports bra and ready to go.

"I am so sorry. I thought I could make it in time--"

"Don't worry about it," Olivia said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You look like you got up on the wrong side of the bed."

"You could say that."

"Go get changed; I'll comandeer some treadmills."

As promised, by the time Casey had emerged from the locker room, Olivia had access to two state-of-the-art treadmills on the expansive second floor of the gym. Windows covered one full side of the room from top to bottom, providing a view of the buildings across the street, and the wall opposite them was decorated with full length mirrors. They stretched and started up their machines.

"How was the trial on Friday?"

"Same as every other day," Casey replied, pulling her hair back with a plastic band. "Leonard inventing invisible perpetrators, Ashland trying desperately to prove it's all a ruse." She didn't tell Olivia about her late-night docket reading session with Munch. If they were right, and Leonard really was innocent, he wanted to have enough evidence before presenting it to the other detectives. "He made Elena cry."

"Leonard did?"

"Yeah. He brought up everything: lying on her taxes, sleeping with Marianne's husband, having his baby, keeping it a secret. There was even the tiniest hint of implication that Elena herself had hired someone to rape and murder Marianne, although he focused mostly on his phantom perpetrator." She shook her head. "You know, if he's acquitted, he'll have to be removed to civil court."

"Because of the trial?"

"No, because every district attorney is going to ask for a substitution of judge if he ends up on their case."

Olivia chuckled. "When is he scheduled to testify?"

"Last for the prosecution. I know Jay would love it if he'd testify on a Friday."

"Give the jury something to mull over all weekend."

"Exactly. But yesterday was too soon and we don't have enough witnesses to make it to next Friday. You know, Jay could be a really great attorney if he could rein in his attitude."

"He still giving you hell about your relationship with John?"

"He's hardly spoken to me since he blew up in my office and when he has, he's completely indifferent. Makes me wonder what he'd say if he found out I spent the night at his place."

She stared at Casey, brown eyes wide. "I guess it wasn't the wrong _side_ of the bed you woke up on. It was the wrong bed all together. Well ... congratulations?"

She frowned for a moment then laughed. "No, we didn't do _that_. We slept together, but it consisted of just sleeping. And it was ... nice." She wanted to confide in Olivia, to tell her that over the last couple of months she'd fallen for him. But Olivia had known John longer than she had, and they saw each other almost daily. It might make everyone feel awkward -- or more awkward than they already did.

The whirring of the treadmill motors filled the uneasy silence between them. "I'm happy for you, Casey, and John. We all are. It's just--" She sighed. "It'll take some getting used to, you know? For the past month or so, I think I've been living in the Twilight Zone. He like a big kid, grinning all the time, and I don't think I've heard him say anything even remotely negative." She chuckled to herself. "I never would've guessed in a million years that he'd date anyone, let alone someone I knew, let alone you."

"Believe me, I know. I thought all the decent guys in the city were taken."

"John's decent, but he's been hurt before. His last wife left him for another cop."

"Well, he has nothing to worry about there." She cast her a quirky glance. "Or does he?"

Olivia laughed. "Either you've been spending too much time with him..." There was a short, thoughtful pause. "Or you're perfect for him."

Casey blushed. "Let's say it's the former."

* * *

After going home and changing into jeans and a striped sweater, Casey headed to her office's law library. There were several computer terminals available for her to use her choice of Lexus Nexus or Westlaw, massive legal search engines. The cases on the computer were identical to those in the _Northeastern Reporter_ series which listed appeals to higher courts and their outcomes. While Marianne wasn't an appellate judge, she would be listed as the presiding trial court judge. If that particular case was remanded back to the trial court, she could go to their local court docket and see if Leonard heard it the second time. At least that was her plan.

"Hey, you're early." Munch kissed her cheek before sitting in the chair beside her. "Any luck?"

"Typing it in now." She typed 'Woodward' into Westlaw's find box, selected New York state cases, and pressed go. It would likely produce more hits than she needed, but she didn't want to risk missing one.

"Seventy-three?" Munch sighed. "Can you print them all or--"

She smiled. "That was just typing 'Woodward'. The first hit is _People versus Woodward_, and it's not even in the same district as ours. So that's not related. I just wanted to see how many we got." She returned to the find page and typed 'Marianne Woodward'. Three cases appeared on the screen. "That's better."

"_Richards versus Gelber_. Civil case."

"She was probably the attorney on that one." She opened the case and skimmed the attorneys of record. "Yeah, look. Marianne Woodward is one of the attorneys who handled the appeal. And she won."

"What's next?"

"_People versus Knutz_. Affirmed. So that's a no." She took a breath before opening the last case. "_People versus DeLance_." She skimmed the summary at the beginning of the document. "Defendant appeals on the grounds that the evidence was insufficient to sustain a conviction..." Her heart jumped to her throat. "Affirmed in part and reversed in part. Remanded for sentencing only."

"Damn. There goes our theory."

"Not necessarily." Casey closed Westlaw and opened up the county docket search engine. She typed in the name of the defendant, David DeLance, and waited for the man's name to appear. "The original case was heard by Marianne, and the remand for sentencing was heard by ... Martin Leonard." She read through the entire docket sheet and looked at Munch. "DeLance would be out on parole by now."

Munch gave a slow nod. "I think it's time we paid Mr. DeLance a visit."

* * *

_Residence of David DeLance  
Queens, New York  
Saturday, December 5_

Shaking his head, Fin got out of his car and walked toward the low-budget apartment building. Some of the windows had been boarded over, and the front door was loose on its hinges. A rat scurried across his path, and he froze in place. He glared at Munch, who was standing near the building, one hand in his pocket. "You called me on a Saturday afternoon to check out this junky old place?"

"What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure if I'm up to date on my tetanus shot." He continued forward and tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. "We'd better get hazard pay for this. What are we doing here anyway?"

"This is the last known address for David DeLance."

"Yeah, you said that on the phone. What case is this?"

"Woodward."

"Woodward," Fin repeated with a chuckle. "Must be a new case because I know you're not investigating something that's already in trial." Somehow, he expected the look of guilt on Munch's face. "What's going on?"

"Something's not right here."

"You're right about that. You've argued that Leonard raped and killed Judge Woodward since day one. Now you don't think he did it?"

"He's guilty of something. Maybe he didn't rape her, and maybe he didn't choke her or stab her to death, but I think he hired the man who did."

"David DeLance."

Munch nodded.

"And how did you come up with his name?"

"Early on in her career as a jurist, Woodward presided over a case, _People versus DeLance_. DeLance held the victim hostage in her own home for three days, raped her repeatedly, and threatened to kill her six year old son. He was convicted and sentenced. He appealed. The higher court found that the evidence was insufficient to sustain the conviction on all but three rape counts. They remanded it back here for sentencing."

"So?"

"So Leonard handled the sentencing. DeLance was out in no time, and he's on parole now." Fin didn't look convinced, and he sighed. "The DA's office still had their files on the original case. I read that woman's testimony. DeLance tied her to the bedposts, naked. She was blindfolded and gagged with a washcloth. He was hiding in the closet when she came home. Sound familiar?"

"Yeah, it does."

"Leonard is too smooth not to be involved. He knows something. I think he approached DeLance, reminded him of all the unnecessary time he spent in jail courtesy of Marianne Woodward, and asked him if he'd like to extract some revenge."

"All right, I'll go along with that. But if it turns out DeLance is innocent, will you stop with the conspiracy theories and just accept the fact that maybe you caught the right guy?"

With a scowl, he pivoted on his heel and ducked inside the building. Fin slipped past the door, careful not to touch anything. He followed Munch up the stairs, every step creaking with the added weight. The building was dark with only one frosted bulb still working. His shoe sank into something gooey, and he groaned.

The last apartment on the second floor was the address DeLance provided to his parole officer. The building was quiet, as if no one lived there. Munch rapped on the door. "David DeLance! NYPD, we'd like to have a word with you." No one answered, and no one came into the hall to see what was happening. Perhaps the police visiting was a frequent occurrence and they ignored it. "DeLance!" He reached for the handle, and it turned easily.

Fin pulled out his gun. "That's never a good sign."

Munch did the same then pushed the door open. He stepped to the side, waited a beat, then peeked around the corner. "DeLance!" Still no answer. They moved in.

The apartment was freezing; either DeLance didn't pay his electric bill or he left a window open. From their position in the entranceway, they could see a rumpled couch with stuffing coming out of the armrest and a small end table topped with empty cigarette packages and a tipped-over beer bottle. The walls of the apartment were a dingy grey, and the ceiling was stained with years of cigarette smoke.

The short entranceway opened into a small living room that Fin thought was the same size as his own bedroom. The window on the south wall was wide open. Icicles hung from the sill. Shaking off his immediate suspicion of the worst, he called out, "David DeLance, this is the NYPD. Come out slowly." There was no response. Fin nudged his head toward the kitchen. "You check there. I'll look in the bedroom."

Munch didn't have to go far. In the center of the kitchen lay David DeLance, pale and unmoving.

* * *

"You got it?"

Melinda Warner folded her arms across her chest and gave Munch her most convincing stern expression. "I just want you to know that I did all the toxicology reports myself, on my day off, on a Sunday."

"Yes, and the NYPD thanks you for it. So how did he die?"

"Drug overdose." She handed him David DeLance's autopsy report. "No evidence of foul play."

He thumbed through the pages. "Well, what if the killer knew where DeLance usually injected himself and injected him there?"

"There are no defensive wounds, no suspicious markings. There's nothing to suggest murder. Sorry, Detective."

It was getting late, but he drove to Casey's apartment anyway. She would want to hear the autopsy reports. Plus he wanted to see her. Hopefully the feeling was mutual. As he maneuvered into a parking space a few blocks from her building, he decided to change his entire way of thinking. The feeling wasn't _hopefully_ mutual, it _was_ mutual. She had made that clear to him more than once. It was time to stop living in the past. Casey wasn't like the other women he'd dated. She wasn't intellectually deficient or drop dead gorgeous or overly feminine. She was everything he had been looking for and then some. And despite his attempts to ignore it, he was probably in love with her. She deserved all of him, the good and the bad. It was time he delivered.

He was in good spirits when he knocked on her door and even better ones when she answered it. "I wasn't expecting to see you tonight," she said. "Not that that's bad. Come in."

He waited until she had closed the door before pulling her into an embrace. "I missed you," he said softly, stroking her hair.

There was a muffled laugh, and she lifted her head. "Me too." She kissed his lips, then his chin, then the hollow of his neck. "Feel free to drop by for no reason anytime."

"Oh, I came here for a reason, I just can't remember it at the moment."

"Selective amnesia," she teased.

"And what a pleasant way to forget."

"Certainly more enjoyable than trying to figure out who killed Marianne." She leaned forward to kiss him again, and he sighed.

"Damn, now I remember." He led her to the couch, and they sat down. "Warner finished her preliminary autopsy and tox screens on David DeLance."

"And?"

He shook his head. "No evidence of anything other than a drug overdose. No defensive wounds or strange needle marks or anything."

"But..."

Damn, she knew him too well. "She'll know more later, but for now Warner couldn't give an exact time of death because of the temperature of the apartment. The window was left open."

"Not another mysterious window," she teased.

"He could've been dead for days or a week or a month. Pretty convenient for a killer."

"Or it could just be that DeLance was so high on drugs that he left it open." She leaned into his arms and sighed. "Occum's Razor, John. The simpliest explanation--"

"--tends to be the right one. Yeah, I know."

"And what's more simple? A drug addict leaving the window open or a killer using it to mask the time of death?"

"In my line of work?"

Casey chuckled. "I see your point. Now..." She crossed one leg over the other and leaned close to him. "Is there anything else about the case you need to tell me?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Good." Her coy expression was a mixture of sweetness and sexuality, and as their lips met, he gave a silent _thank you_ to every omnipotent being he could think of. He had made it through five when his pager began its shrill beep, and his prayers of thanks turned into curses.

"Take the batteries out," she mumbled against his skin.

He had pulled the device off his belt loop, intending to toss it across the room, when he noticed the number on the display. At midnight on a Sunday? "As much as I love what your hands are doing right now, I need to take this call." He dialed the number on his cell phone. "Whatever it is, it had better be good."

"_Detective Munch? This is Andy Baker from CSU._"

"Andy!" Casey's eyebrows rose, and he put the ear piece of his phone between the two of them so she could listen in. "How may I help you?"

"_I would have called the primaries on the case, but I saw you at the trial. We just finished going through the items we collected from Marianne Woodward's apartment after her murder, and we found something you need to see. Can you come to the lab?_"

Casey nodded enthusiastically, and Munch smiled. "We'll be right there."

* * *

Baker was alone in the lab when they arrived, and he spun around on his stool to greet them. If he was surprised to see Casey, he made no indication of it. "Marianne Woodward was an amazing record keeper. She cataloged every piece of jewelry she owned and had it all insured, so we were able to compare what we found at the scene with what the insurance company had on record."

"And you found something out of the ordinary?" Casey asked, the excitement evident in her voice.

"It may be something that wasn't insured, but I doubt it." He held up a plastic bag, and a small object glimmered in the light.

Munch took the bag and held it closer to his face. It was a fat gold ring, possibly a class ring. A large blue stone rested on top, and words had been etched around the gem. He squinted at them. "I can't read it."

"Silver Falls Law School," Casey said automatically.

Both men looked at her. "You can read that from here?" Munch asked.

"I don't have to. That's Leonard's law school ring."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. He wore it on his pitching hand and would take it off when we played. It should have his initials on one side of the band."

"And it does," Baker confirmed. "The other side has fraternity letters."

Tearing his gaze from the item, he looked at the technician. "Where did you find it?"

Baker grinned proudly. "Wedged between the mattress and the headboard."

Casey's eyes widened. "I'll call Jay, have him draft an emergency motion to admit new evidence."

Munch barely registered the fact that she pulled his cell phone off his belt to make the call. He was focused on the ring, all thoughts of Leonard's innocence a distant memory. "We've got you now."

_End of part twelve_


	13. Chapter 13 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 13/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Monday, December 6_

By the time Baker finished his testimony regarding the ring, Leonard looked slightly panicked. It was the first time during the trial he had ever shown any emotion besides smugness or amusement. He had no questions for the investigator, and once Baker left the stand, he asked for a short recess. It was granted, and he exited the courtroom in a rush.

While John had wanted to be with her, Casey insisted that he go back to work. He did so begrudgingly but made her promise to call with any news of interest. She needed to go back to work herself, but to do so felt like a betrayal of her promise to Marianne Woodward. So she sat alone directly behind Ashland, aware that the press was paying too much attention to her and not enough attention to the trial. Probably wondering where John was, if they'd had a falling out. She purposely kept her attention toward the judge's empty seat and the state seal above it.

The soft sniffling of someone nearby got her attention, and she turned to see a teary-eyed Carly Summers seated two chairs down. The woman did her best to keep a stiff composure, but her shoulders were shaking.

"Are you all right?" Casey asked softly.

"I miss my sister," was the equally quiet reply.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Ms. Novak." Her eyes drifted to the empty defense chair, and her body began to shake again, this time with anger. "It's his." She stood up and retreated for the exit. Casey faced forward again, although a part of her wanted to comfort Carly. It was not her place, and she'd never make it out the door without being surrounded by the press anyway.

Ashland turned around and rested his arms on the ledge that separated the room in half. "Where's Detective Munch?" Although his tone held no malice, she still stiffened at the question.

"Back at the precinct."

"Listen, Casey, I'm sorry for the way I acted last week. Your relationship is nobody's business but yours and his, and, well, I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Jay."

"And you're right, this job is ... not for me. When Baker testified to the ring, I heard Marianne's sister sob. I don't know how you do it. I go home at night, and I'm haunted by these dreams that I can't shake. I woke up screaming Friday night." He looked into her eyes, and she saw pain, sadness, fear. "How do you do it? I mean, how _can_ you?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. Then she reached out and covered his hand with hers.

He nodded for a long moment, tricking himself into believing that everything would be okay once the trial was over. She had tried that herself once. She didn't have the heart to tell him that the dreams were just beginning, that it could be years from now and a scent or a sound would bring them back as clearly as they were now.

"I'm going to call you back up to the stand after the recess. You were the one to positively identify the ring, and we need that on the record. Are you okay with that?"

"Of course."

"Baker said both you and Detective Munch came to the lab. Why?"

"I was with him when Andy paged him."

Ashland looked at her wearily. "I hate to ask you this, given the fact that it's not my business, but was there anything ... going on ... at the time?"

"Not yet." His face burned red, and she chuckled. "He stopped by my apartment to give me some information on a case."

"Which case?"

"That's confidential," she replied.

"Fair enough." He noticed Leonard return to the courtroom and raised his eyebrows. "Showtime."

Carly sat beside Casey in the seat closest to the aisle. "Is it all right if I sit here?"

"Yes, of course."

She folded one long leg over the other and leaned back in the chair. Her eyes shifted to Leonard more than once, but she said nothing.

Casey was recalled, and Ashland had a few short questions for her. She felt more at ease this time, and when Leonard stood up to examine her, her pulse remained steady.

"Ms. Novak, what was Detective Munch doing at your apartment?"

"He had some information for me regarding a case."

"At midnight?"

"Yes."

He scoffed a little. "Now you can't tell me that's common practice. Was this a work-only visit or a personal visit or a bit of both?"

"Objection." Ashland rose from his seat. "Your Honor, Ms. Novak is on the stand purely to testify as to her identification of the ring found at the crime scene. Mr. Leonard's line of questioning is a non-issue."

"I agree," Petrovsky said. "Objection sustained. Find a new topic or the witness will be excused."

A flicker of irritation passed over his face, but he did as he was told. "How did you know that this ring allegedly belonged to me?"

"I've seen it many times," Casey said. "You and I would meet at the practice fields, and we would share a locker. You always removed your ring, and I put it in the locker."

"When is the last time you saw me wearing this ring?"

"I don't recall."

"Did you see it the last time we were at the fields together?"

"I believe so."

"And how about the time we passed each other at the batting cages? You were leaving, I was coming in. Did you see it then?"

"I don't recall."

"When you've been in my courtroom, have you seen it?"

Somehow, Casey knew what was coming. "I don't recall."

"How about when you and another attorney came to my chambers to arrange for scheduling after Marianne Woodward's death? Do you recall me wearing the ring then?"

"No."

"So between the last time we were at the fields together -- do you have an estimate as to when that was, by the way?"

"Early August, maybe."

"So between early August and today, have you seen that ring on my hand?"

"Not to my recollection." _Here it came..._

"Would it be possible that I lost the ring and that you didn't notice it because it wasn't there?"

She heard Ashland's objection based on speculation, but she didn't hear Petrovsky's ruling. Her eyes were locked with Leonard's, and for a moment, she thought he might be pleading with her to believe him.

* * *

Casey stared blankly at the document in front of her. She'd been reading it for the last ten minutes, although she had no idea as to the contents. Her mind kept returning to Leonard's admission that he'd lost the ring. Had she seen the ring and forgotten? She tried to remember his hands during every encounter with him, working backwards, and she couldn't picture the ring. It wasn't something that she paid attention to, and that made her feel guilty.

"You okay, Case?" Munch appeared from nowhere, holding a white paper bag and a cup with a straw poking through the lid. He put the items on her desk and gave her a kiss.

She looked at the door to her office then back at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I was planning on surprising you with lunch anyway, but then Ashland called me and told me what happened in court today."

"Jay called you?"

"Yeah, imagine that. Now instead of despising him, I just don't like him." He kissed her again then pulled another chair around to her side of the desk to sit on. "Everything okay?"

"It's better." She smiled. "How goes the paperwork?"

He made a grunt of displeasure. "Fin gave me most of it, said it was penance for taking a few days off."

"You seem like you're in a good mood anyway." She peeked in the lunch bag and laughed. "Oh, John..." She withdrew a large chocolate chip cookie with a frosting face: big, googly eyes, a yellow button nose, and an orange squiggle for a smile. "It's adorable. I don't want to eat it."

He took it from her, removed the wrapping, and broke the cookie in half. "No, you have to eat it. It's symbolic."

"Oh, really?" She looked at the broken face.

"It represents Martin Leonard and how we're going to wipe the grin off his face when we win." With one swipe, he removed the orange icing from his half of the cookie. "Now he's just a bug-eyed, big-headed prison inmate." He licked the frosting from his finger and nodded with approval. "Tasty, though."

The silliness of the cookie metaphor, coupled with the stress of the trial and tumultuous mixture of emotions that swelled inside her, sent her over the proverbial edge. She began to chuckle first, but that gave way to giggles, followed by loud peals of laughter. Her head rolled back, and she directed her voice toward the ceiling. It seemed to echo in the room. Soon, tears were streaming down her face, and her laughs were interrupted by an occasional snort, which made her laugh even harder.

Munch watched her with awe. He knew his jokes were corny and sometimes worthy of an appreciative chuckle, but he'd never witnessed this response before. While he was somewhat flattered, he was also worried. He even had to take her cookie away from her so she didn't drop it on the floor or fling it across the room.

"Casey? You okay?"

Her laughter died down, and she looked at him with wet cheeks and red eyes. She nodded, sniffed a few times, then wiped her face. He tucked her hair behind her ears. "Thank you," she said. "I needed that. This." She squeezed his hand. "You -- stupid cookie jokes and all."

He was sure this was one of those moments in life where no words were needed, where the entire conversation took place with gazes alone. Even if he had been willing to say those three little words aloud, it wouldn't have been necessary. She knew and he knew, and that was all they needed.

* * *

Monday night brought a foot of snow, but that didn't stop the press or spectators from attending the trial. Martin Leonard was scheduled to give his testimony first thing, and nobody wanted to miss a sound byte. When they walked into the courtroom, Munch and Elliot wondered if they'd be able to find a seat. Casey waved them to the front row, where four empty chairs waited. "Isn't Olivia coming?" she asked.

Elliot shook his head. "She thought it might be best if she avoided the courthouse, given her testimony last week."

"Oh. I had forgotten about that." Her eyes lit up at the sight of Munch, but she didn't reach out. "Hi."

"Hi." He stood an arm's length from her to avoid any telling photographs, and it took all of his willpower not to take a step forward, closer to her. Elliot's hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he jumped.

"Sit."

Munch gave a low 'woof' but did as he was told. Casey took the chair next to him, and Elliot sat on her other side. Out of casual habit, he glanced to his right, and it took him a moment to realize that he was seated beside Carly Summers. She wore her hair down this time as opposed to in a bun or twist, and it was beautiful. Silky, smooth -- she could have been modeling a shampoo. "Ms. Summers."

She glanced up and for a moment was without her trademark sneer. When she realized who had spoken, it returned as if it had never left. "Detective Stabler. I am surprised to see you here. Do you often attend the trials of the victims?"

"Whenever I can."

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Elliot sat uncomfortably between the stoic wall of Carly and the private conversation of Munch and Casey. He looked at his watch and wondered why Judge Petrovsky and the jury couldn't be early for once.

At last, the parade began. Everyone rose, the jury filed in, Judge Petrovsky took her seat, and everyone sat again. Then Ashland stood and said the words that everyone had been waiting to hear since day one: "The People call Martin Leonard to the stand."

* * *

"Three hours and it's not over yet? How much more does Ashland prepare on asking? I'm exhausted just listening to him."

Casey shrugged at Elliot's question as she finished chewing her food. "Some people testify for days. I don't think Jay's planning on that, but I don't know. I suspect he'll be done by the end of the day, maybe tomorrow morning."

A young news reporter came over to their table, and her cameraman shined lights in their faces. She wasn't from one of the stations that had secured a place in the coveted back row of the courtroom. "Ms. Novak, Detective Stabler, can we get a statement for our early news?"

"We have no comment at this time," Casey said.

"Oh, come on. There's got to be something you can say about Leonard's testimony so far."

"No."

The woman was undaunted. "How about your slander suit against Scorpion Jack?"

"I have no comment about that either." Before she could interrupt, Casey said, "The file is public record, and I have nothing to say that isn't already documented in the court file."

She waved to her cameraman to stop recording then knelt beside the table. "Listen, Ms. Novak, from one woman to another--"

Elliot chuckled, which drew a dirty look from the reporter.

"From one woman to another, you know how hard it is to make it in a man's world. Please. Just give me anything."

"If you want a statement about the trial, you need to speak to Jeremiah Ashland. He's handling it. I have nothing to say."

With a overly dramatic sigh, the reporter walked away just as Munch sat down. "What'd I miss?"

"Casey shot down a reporter," Elliot said with a grin.

"I thought I was very nice about it."

Munch nodded. "If she'd been mean, she would've used a baseball bat."

"Never gonna live that down, am I?"

"People are always worried about disgruntled postal employees with semi-automatic rifles when they should be worried about bat-wielding attorneys." The rest of the joke died on his lips at the sight of a man entering the restaurant, followed by several reporters. "So much for a quiet lunch."

Casey and Elliot followed his eyes. Martin Leonard was trying to get in line to order lunch, but the reporters refused to budge, and he was swallowed by the crowd. Voices started to rise.

Munch and Elliot stood up at the same time and hurried to the growing mob. They drilled open an empty space and began separating the reporters from Leonard. The man took a deep breath as if his oxygen supply had been cut off for almost too long. Elliot waved his badge in the air. "Unless you are a patron of this establishment, please wait outside."

There was a collective groan from the press, and one of them hollered, "You can't do that! How about our rights to freedom of the press?"

"How about we arrest you for disorderly conduct?" Munch countered. "Tack on inciting a riot and assault, and you might spend a few nights in jail."

Swayed by the thought of jail time, the reporters shuffled out of the restaurant with a few groans and grumbles. One remained for a few moments, glaring at them, before making a sound of disgust. He shoved the front door open and stormed outside.

Elliot looked in Leonard's general direction but didn't make eye contact. "If you wish to press charges, you can do so at the station."

Leonard straightened. "No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Detectives."

They both nodded before turning around and walking away.

* * *

Ashland looked refreshed, but Elliot knew he had spent his entire lunch break preparing more questions. On the stand, Leonard seemed calm, like the incident at the restaurant had never occurred. "Mr. Leonard, I'd like to touch on some things we discussed before the recess if that's all right. Now, you had testified that you had been to Marianne Woodward's apartment prior to her death. Had you been there more than once?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time?"

"Oh, I suppose it was earlier that October."

"Would you consider yourself familiar with her apartment?"

"I would call it more of a penthouse, sir, but yes, I was familiar."

"You knew the layout?"

"Yes."

"Had you been in the living room?"

"Yes"

"Kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Bedroom?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Yes."

"When?"

"August ... sometime in August."

"For what reason?"

Leonard cleared his throat. Elliot watched him carefully. "She, uh ... I came by to help her clean out a closet. She was going to give her husband's things to the Salvation Army."

Ashland paused. He asked his next question as if it had never occurred to him before. It probably hadn't. "Did you have sex with Marianne Woodward?" There was silence from the witness box. Leonard stared at his hands. "Mr. Leonard?"

"Yes."

The spectators burst into gasps and whispers, and Petrovsky, looking a little peaked, tapped her gavel. Carly Summers bolted from the courtroom, hand clamped over her mouth. Cynthia Gray appeared sad but not surprised. Ashland leaned on the prosecutor's table and looked at the audience with an unseeing eye. His image would probably grace the front page of every newspaper in the morning.

"We had agreed never to talk about it," Leonard continued, breaking one of the rules of giving testimony: never volunteer information. "We were packing up the last box, and she just ... cried. Marianne was always so strong, and to see her cry like that -- a friend, a colleague, I just..." Although his body was in the witness box, his mind was trapped months in the past, and a pang of sadness touched his eyes. "I remember wishing that I could do something to ease her pain." Everyone stared at him, breaths held in anticipation of his next words. "It was a need: a need to be held, a need to be loved, even if it couldn't be by the one she wanted. She even called me Chester." Leonard took a breath, exhaled, smiled just a little. "She could chew you up and spit you out before you had a chance to beg for mercy, but so help me, God ... I would have done anything for her."

* * *

"What a great actor." Olivia took a swig of her beer and gestured to the pool table. "Your turn."

Fin rounded the corner and considered his options. "I don't know, Olivia." He bent over the table, lined up his shot, and took it. One solid slid into the pocket. He chuckled. "You're gonna lose this one."

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'?"

"What?"

"You think Leonard was being sincere about his feeling for Marianne?" The nightly news report was over, but she still stared at the television. They had showed Leonard's confession about having sex with Marianne twice, from start to finish. "'I don't know,'" she repeated.

"I think he loved her."

"Fin, this is the same guy who said she had been gently raped. What makes you think he has any feelings whatsoever?"

"He has feelings. Not guilt or remorse like normal people, but anger and passion on a very extreme scale. For instance, if you win this game and I have to pay you another ten bucks, I'm going to be angry. Would I kill you?" He paused as if in serious consideration. "Probably not."

"That's comforting." Fin missed his next shot, and she took her turn. "Personally, I think he's playing it a little over the top. But then again, like you said, he works on an extreme scale. Tomorrow will be the deciding factor; Ashland still has some questions." She made another successful shot. "Looks like you're going to be angry."

"Damn. I need another opponent."

"No such luck. Elliot's with the family, Munch and Casey are who-knows-where. That leaves you and me."

"And Cragen."

"Are you kidding? He'd beat you blindfolded."

"Not much different than right now."

"That is true. Get your money ready, Fin." She aimed for the eight ball, shot, and sank it. Her satisfied smirk was evident. "I think that's game. Again."

* * *

Ashland sat at the head of the table, waiting for the conversations to die down before speaking. "We're done. Now it's Leonard's turn to ask the questions. He may call you to the stand, he may not. You're all on his list of witnesses, so be prepared. We may have gotten off to a slow start, but we went out with a bang. Congratulations are in order."

The remainder of Leonard's testimony lasted until lunch, and Jenny Ashland brought another round of ham sandwiches and potato salad. Munch and Casey sat on one side of the table, facing Elliot, Olivia, and Fin. Casey picked at her sandwich while she listened to Jay explain to the detectives who weren't present at trial how Leonard 'lost' his ring.

"He said it was the day after Marianne reported her rape, that Tuesday. It disappeared from his locker at the batting cages."

"Convenient," Olivia said.

Elliot dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "I thought it was an odd thing to say. If he lost the ring _after_ the rape, and he's innocent--"

Ashland was already shaking his head. "That's a dangerous path, Elliot. Leonard is guilty, and I'm convinced that the jury thinks so, too."

"Yeah, but why not say he lost it before the rape? I mean, perjury's perjury. It doesn't matter how much of a lie it is, just that it's a lie." He leaned forward. "In a sense, he's trying to convince the jury that someone planted the evidence. And if that's the case, the 'real' killer would've had to get a sample of Leonard's blood without his knowledge, take it to Woodward's apartment, kill her, then put the blood on the fork. That's so far-fetched that it's crazy."

"Even crazier than Munch's dead drug dealer hitman theory," Olivia teased.

Once the words settled in, Munch stared at his partner. "You told her?"

"What was I supposed to do? She was beating my ass in pool, I was out of cash. I had to give her something better than beer."

"It's okay, Munch," Elliot said. "It was a great angle. I'm impressed."

His eyes turned to Olivia. "_You_ told _him_?"

She chuckled. "Munch, the bottom line is we've checked a hundred different theories, and only one still fits. Martin Leonard is guilty."

* * *

_Criminal Court of New York City  
100 Centre Street  
Friday, December 10_

Dressed in a navy Armani suit that cost him a big chunk of his salary, Jeremiah Ashland took several deep breaths. Although he initially joined yoga classes to seek out potential dates, they actually had other benefits as well. His closing argument was written, and it was brilliant. Of course, it wasn't his argument that would win; it was his rebuttal. He was good at thinking on the fly, so if Leonard gave an empassioned speech, he was confident that he could counter it.

When he walked into the courtroom for the last time, his breath caught in his throat. One person had already arrived, despite the security guards outside the door. Carly Summers sat in the front row, occupying the seat normally taken by Casey, the seat directly behind him. Damn. His chest tightened, and he wondered if perhaps he was going to have a heart attack.

Ashland sat down and opened his portfolio, but he couldn't focus. He could feel Carly's brown eyes on him, but she never spoke. Another time and place, he might have asked her on a date. She was attractive -- okay, gorgeous -- and he was certain that he could've worked up enough charm to at least get her to accept a drink. But here, she was a victim's sister, a constant reminder that what he did and said affected a living person.

He hated it.

He hadn't told anyone yet, but after this trial, he was planning to retire -- at the ripe age of twenty-nine. The practice of law was a love of his father's, not his. He'd had no direction in college and selected law to appease his family. Now he wanted out. Maybe go somewhere where the sun shined every day and he could escape the darkness he was living in now.

The courtroom began to fill, and Ashland read his argument once more before putting it away. He heard Casey exchange greetings with Carly. "You ready?" she whispered to him.

"Yep."

"Good luck."

He needed it.

When the official proceedings were over, Ashland gave his argument. The jury remained attentive throughout the entire speech. When he was finished, he sat, and Leonard began his final plea. His acting skills were worthy of an Oscar as he begged the jury to listen to reason -- his reason.

"The prosecution selected me as their suspect because of something as circumstantial as a quote from an eighties television series. They had no other suspects, and they desperately needed one. They ignored the fact that someone stole my ring. They ignored the fact that the blood on the fork wasn't a perfect match to mine, that there were no puncture wounds on my body from the fork which I was allegedly stabbed with. The photograph taken in the stairwell is inconclusive. There is no way to determine when the cat hairs from my cousin's cat were brought over from her apartment. There is no way to determine which judge's robe the black fiber found in Marianne's bed came from.

"Now consider these facts," he continued, "facts which the prosecution have swept under a rug. You have heard no viable answer as to why Daniel Groth was determined not to be a suspect. Detective Benson was found guilty of contempt for refusing to answer that question. No one has been able to properly explain to you why Casey Novak's window was open when there were only three people in her apartment and none of the three opened it. And you have not heard one reason why I would rape and subsequently kill a fellow judge, a colleague, a friend."

Leonard dipped his chin and adopted a gentler tone. "Marianne Woodward was a fine woman, a fantastic judge. I cared for her, more than I should have." He paused. "I can't explain what happened those two nights to Marianne. I don't know who did it or why. I can only tell you that her rapist, her murderer, is still out there. Convict me, and you would be putting an innocent man behind bars and letting a guilty one go free. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is not justice."

"Rebuttal, Your Honor?" Ashland stood, ready to give his own Oscar-worthy performance. "Justice," he repeated. "A noble concept. Well, someone once told me that the purpose of a trial is to bring justice to the victim, and after hearing Mr. Leonard's speech, I am left wondering who he thinks the victim really is. Marianne Woodward? Or himself?" He walked toward the jury box, making eye contact with each of the twelve individuals sitting there. "This is a case about who raped and murdered Marianne Woodward. You heard testimony from the police who investigated every angle, every suspect, but in the end, only Martin Leonard fit their evidence. You also heard from the crime scene investigators, the lab technicians, the medical examiner -- they found cat hairs, blood, a ring, and all of these things could be traced back to Martin Leonard. He would like you to believe wild theories that his ring was stolen, his blood was stolen, he was in love with the victim, but ladies and gentlemen, what he's trying to do is blind you. You've heard the truth. There was no botched investigation, no invisible perpetrator. There was only a long-held grudge by an aging man who was upstaged by a younger, more driven woman."

He took a breath, paused for the perfect length of time. "As you have heard by virtually every witness, including the defendant himself, Marianne Woodward was an excellent judge and an excellent person. Her life's work was putting rapists, child molesters, and other sexual offenders behind bars, where they could never hurt another person. She dedicated herself to this cause both in and out of court. She fell victim to the very thing she was trying to prevent, and _this man_--" He jabbed a finger in Leonard's direction. "--was responsible for that. Not the detectives assigned to the case or their attorney, not the crime scene technicians or the ME or Marianne's family. _He_ is. She did nothing to deserve the brutality of her rape or murder. Justice, _true_ justice, would be to bring Marianne Woodward back from the dead, but unfortunately, that isn't possible. And that is where you come in, ladies and gentlemen. Only _you_ can convict Martin Leonard. Only _you_ can give Marianne Woodward the justice she deserves."

_End of part thirteen_


	14. Chapter 14 of 14

Title: The Price of Justice  
Author: perfectvelvet  
Rating: PG-13/T  
Synopsis: The rape and subsequent murder of a prominent judge leave the squad with no evidence and no suspects.

Disclaimer: The characters within are property of Wolf Films, Universal Television, and other corporations. No infringement is intended. The characters you don't recognize are my creations; so are most of the locations this time around.

_The Price of Justice_ 14/14  
by perfectvelvet

_Casey Novak's Office  
Wednesday, December 15_

Munch did what appeared to be a gymnast's pre-routine workout, stretching his arms across his torso and over his head before shaking them out at his side. He looked at himself in Casey's small hand mirror then breathed into his hand and inhaled.

"Are you primping?" Casey asked, peering at him from over the edge of a newsletter.

"No," he replied before turning his back to her. He licked his fingertips and straightened down an unruly piece of hair.

"Just because the press said that they received word that the jury reached a verdict doesn't mean it's true." He began picking off lint and stray hairs from his suit, and she sighed. "You're worse than a woman."

He ignored her comment as he took one last, long look in the mirror. Not perfect, but presentable at least.

She finished the last of her turkey sandwich then rummaged through her desk drawer until she found her toothbrush. "I'll be right back." She hadn't reached the door when her phone rang. "Casey Novak." Her brows lifted. "Okay, thanks." She replaced the receiver and looked at Munch evenly.

"What?"

"That was Jay. The jury has returned with a verdict." There was a pause. "Does my hair look okay? Do I need to reapply my lipstick?"

He laughed. "Who's worse than a woman?"

"I _am_ a woman; I'm entitled."

"That you are." He gave her a long kiss. "Hair looks okay, but you might want to put on more lipstick."

She handed him a tissue. "And you might want to wipe yours off."

* * *

"Mr. Ashland!"

"Mr. Ashland, can we get a statement?"

"Do you think the jury ruled in your favor?"

Ashland paused amidst blinking flashbulbs, and the reporters grew still. He hadn't made many statements during the trial. Casey and Munch stood with him, as if coaxing him to make a comment. "I think..." Everyone leaned forward, straining to hear despite the fact that his voice naturally boomed. "The jury will find justice for Marianne Woodward. Thank you."

He walked away despite the continued storm of questioning. Casey and Munch hesitated a moment too long and found themselves surrounded. "Ms. Novak, what do you think about the outcome of the trial?"

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I think the People have met their burden of proof, but it was a tough trial. One thing's for certain, though." A sad smile appeared on her face, and she felt Munch squeeze her hand. "Marianne would've loved it."

Inside the courtroom, anticipation buzzed. Journalists were giving live reports with an empty backdrop. Elliot and Olivia were waiting in the first row with the last of the empty seats. Carly sat in the chair closest to the aisle, her hands folded in what looked like a silent prayer. They all exchanged pleasantries but kept conversation to a minimum.

Leonard was speaking quietly to his cousin Cynthia, looking as cool as ever. The jury was about to determine how he was going to spend the rest of his life, and he didn't seem phased at all. Did he really think the jury was going to rule in his favor? Perhaps he was anticipating a hung jury.

The back door opened, and like a stadium full of sports fans doing the Wave, everyone stood as the jury entered the room and took their seats. Casey watched them carefully. Most juries communicated with their eyes, looking at the prosecutor if their finding was guilty and the defense attorney if it was not guilty. This jury, however, avoided all eye contact, staring at the wall or the floor.

In her experience, that meant 'not guilty.' She glanced at Leonard; he seemed to be thinking the same thing, the smugness apparent on his face. He began to turn in her direction, and she looked away.

Munch's grip on her hand tightened. "You okay?"

"You know, whatever happens, he's got grounds for an appeal. But then again, so do we. This could go on forever. Poor Marianne."

He was about to speak when the bailiff announced, "All rise for the Honorable Lena Petrovsky."

Petrovsky walked very carefully to her position and said, "You may be seated." She sat as well and turned her attention to the twelve jurists. The bailiff brought the verdict form from the foreperson to the judge, and she read over it briefly, her expression blank. She returned it to the bailiff who then gave it back to the foreperson. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

The foreperson was a middle-aged Latin teacher at one of the high schools, Casey recalled. The woman nodded to Petrovsky. "We have, Your Honor."

"How do you find?"

Casey closed her eyes.

"Under Count I, first degree rape of Marianne Woodward, we find the defendant, Martin Leonard, guilty." The foreperson was forced into a pause as the spectators began chattering. Petrovsky's gavel silenced them, and the foreperson continued. "Under Count II, first degree murder of Marianne Woodward, we find the defendant, Martin Leonard, guilty."

She heard whispers of excitement, gasps of relief. And when she looked at Leonard, she saw his expression of complete surprise. "Your Honor, please poll the jury."

Petrovksy nodded. "Juror number one, on the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?"

"Guilty."

"Juror number two, on the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?"

"Guilty."

"Juror number three..."

Leonard's shoulders hunched forward like that of an old man as he listened to guilty, guilty, guilty from each of the jurors. When they were finished, his gaze turned toward Petrovsky.

She looked at her colleague, her friend, with compassion. "Martin Leonard, you are to be remanded to a state penitentiary until your sentencing. Bailiff, please escort the defendant from the courtroom."

"_No._" Cynthia Gray's eyes brimmed with tears. "No. Martin."

He turned toward his cousin one last time and gave her a comforting smile. "It's okay, Cynthia."

"Please--" Her fragile voice cracked and shook. "What am I going to do without you?"

He bent over the railing and kissed her on the top of her head. His gaze swept over the courtroom, at the press, the prosecution, and the exiting jury. He looked at Casey for an instant -- or maybe she just imagined it -- before finishing his circle and facing the bailiff. Over Cynthia's maudlin sobs, Martin Leonard was led from the courtroom.

"It's over," Munch said to Casey, but he knew she was thinking the same thing: was it?

* * *

_Café Au Lait  
Manhattan, New York  
Sunday, December 19_

Elliot hesitated outside of Café Au Lait, peering through the window. The cold wind whipped around him, but he couldn't bring himself to actually open the door and step into the warmth. His attention was fixed on the giggling couple inside who were oblivious to everything but each other.

Olivia jogged to him, teeth chattering. "Why are you standing outside? Hot chocolate awaits."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Three months and it's still ... bizarre to me."

She knew what he meant, but she looked anyway. Munch and Casey sat at a four-person table in the café, sharing some sort of pastry. At first glance, one might mistake them for friends or business partners, unless he happened to notice their casually intertwined fingers beneath the table. While they were open about the nature of their relationship, they were very private when it came to physical displays. Olivia had yet to see them kiss beyond a simple peck on the cheek.

"The early stages of courtship," Elliot continued with a grin. "I remember those days -- vaguely. They gave way to making out in the backseat of the family car."

With a groan, she opened the door and entered the café, Elliot snickering behind her. Munch and Casey waved them over, and they sat in the remaining two chairs. Elliot ordered coffee, while Olivia asked for hot chocolate.

"So have you heard from Ashland?" Elliot asked, rubbing his hands together. His coffee arrived, and he wrapped them around his cup instead.

"Yeah, he's down in Miami now." Casey took another bite of her half of the chocolate eclair that she and Munch had been sharing. "Said he saw that it snowed for a week straight in New York and had to call and gloat."

Olivia smiled. "What's he been doing?"

"Working in a surf shop, for now."

"I can't believe he did it," Elliot said. "Gave up his job, moved to Florida, started all over."

"Marianne's case really got to him," Casey replied. "I didn't realize how much until he told me he was leaving." She looked at Munch and smiled faintly. "He did great at trial, it was just ... too much."

Elliot drained the rest of his coffee and ordered a refill. "When's Leonard's sentencing, Casey?"

"The first Tuesday of the new year. Judge Petrovsky wanted to wait until after the holidays. She authorized a day pass so he can spend Christmas with his cousin -- supervised, of course."

While Elliot knew Leonard was guilty as hell, echoes of Cynthia Gray's pleas when the guilty verdict was announced still reverberated in his mind. Ashland wasn't the only one who was haunted by the trial. "Now don't forget, Christmas Eve, dinner at my house. You'll be there, right?"

"You better," Olivia added. "Kathy's a great cook."

Munch nodded. "Absolutely. We're both culinarily challenged."

"I don't think culinarily is a word," Casey pointed out.

He gave a shrug. "I figured it was a nicer thing to say than we're coming for the free food."

"Oh, good," Elliot said with an evil grin. "I was wondering who would be bringing the wine."

Munch rolled his eyes, and Olivia chuckled. "But you did so well last year, John. You are a true connossieur of wine."

"Which is a nicer thing to say than he's an alcoholic," Elliot muttered, hiding his smile by taking another sip of coffee.

"A regular comedic duo, aren't they?"

Casey brushed his hand with her thumb. "We should get going."

"Big plans this afternoon?" Olivia asked.

"Remember my lawsuit against Scorpion Jack? The settlement offer came Friday morning, and the checks were hand-delivered to me that afternoon."

"You're kidding."

"No. Honestly, I expected the suit to be dismissed."

"What are you going to do with the money?" Elliot asked.

"I'm going to donate it to the Marianne Woodward Women's Center." When Marianne's Will was opened and read, it gave fifty percent to Carly, twenty-five percent to Elena, and twenty-five percent to be split evenly between five of the largest rape crisis centers in Manhattan. Carly took her fifty percent and founded the Women's Center in her sister's honor.

"And then what?" Munch prompted.

"They're having a soup line. We volunteered to wash dishes."

"And then?" he repeated. He looked almost giddy.

Casey sighed and shifted her weight to the other foot. "And then ... we're going to Rockefeller Center."

"Oh, skating?" Olivia asked. "Sounds fun."

She nodded a little. "Right. Anyway, got to go. See you tomorrow."

"But definitely Friday," Elliot called out after them. "And don't forget the wine!"

* * *

_"...still can't believe you talked me into this," Novak says as she walks out of the café, pulling her coat collar up around her ears. "I know I'll break my ankle or my arm -- or your teeth." _

_"Such violence!" Detective Munch teases back. _

_She stops walking and looks at him. "I'd just feel more comfortable if we went to a private rink, not right in the heart of the city." _

_He takes her hand and guides her down the sidewalk. "There's nothing private in New York City. We're probably being watched right now." _

_"Well, sure -- Big Brother and all." _

_He decides to wrap his arm around her waist and says something I can't hear. I smile to myself and watch them walk around the corner on their way to the Women's Center. The detective was right about being watched, but it wasn't for control. It was for gratitude. They were pivotal in sending Martin Leonard to jail. _

_Marianne didn't know Leonard had raped her, but I did. I knew. His stupid little catchphrase, I remembered it all too well. I heard it every day for a month as he sat at his throne and glared down at me like it was my fault. That phrase played every day like a broken record, like it continues to play, unending. Then I learned that was what _he _told her before he violated her. Then it was all too clear. _

_But there was no proof. He was much too crafty for the police and left no evidence, so I had to help them. Getting his ring from the locker room at the batting cages was too easy. Of course, the crime scene technicians didn't find it until it was almost too late. The police were no closer to figuring out that he did it, and there was only one way left to prove it to them. _

_Marianne was surprised when she opened the door and saw me on the other side. I was surprised myself. I almost held back, almost didn't go through with my plan. It may not make much sense, but I did it for her. He would have killed her, one way or the other. This was for mercy. _

_The cafeacute; door opens, and the other two detectives walk out. Stabler is polite enough to hold the door open for his partner, who is still fumbling with the buttons on her coat. He says something, and her reply is a gentle swat on his arm. They begin the long walk to their vehicle. I pull my car into an opening in traffic and drive on. _

_Martin Leonard deserves whatever sentence is going to be handed to him next year. He deserves _more _than he's going to get; he deserves the death penalty, but this little state has done away with that form of justice. I take a breath to calm myself because in reality, I am happy. Martin Leonard is going to jail, where he belongs. He will have to live with the sins of his crimes for the rest of his life, and that's punishment enough for me. _

_I only wish it hadn't been at the expense of my sister. _

The End

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and especially those who reviewed --you arewhy I write!


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